


The Devil’s Design

by Folie_a_duex



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail Hobbs Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet Ending, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, But they switch, Cannibalism (OBVIOUSLY), Cannibalism Puns, Dark Will Graham, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Hannibal is in love but has a weird way of showing it, M/M, Murder Family, Murder Wives, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Possessive Will Graham, Post Season 2, Soft Hannibal, Top Will Graham, What happened in Florence is definitely not going to stay in Florence, alternate season 3, because those two are switches you can fight me on this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2020-02-09 10:59:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18636781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Folie_a_duex/pseuds/Folie_a_duex
Summary: “Don’t talk to me of failure,” he whispers, his words curling around her. His eyes grin cruelly as he speaks next. “You, a mother who unstrung the body of her own daughter from the ceiling, knowing where the blame lies. You, a woman living in a web so thick of lies that you’ve lost your identity. You, a child who burned in the snow.”“I’m here, aren’t I?” She snaps in return. “I found you, didn’t I? I killed people for you, didn’t I? I bled for you, didn’t I? I fucking died for you, didn’t I?!”“You are not my sister,” Hannibal repeats, stepping forward, into her breathing space. Into the space around her that welcomes him with open arms. “You are not Mischa Lecter.”





	1. A Not So Shattered Teacup

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Paracosm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4159251) by [drinkbloodlikewine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine), [whiskeyandspite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite). 



> So this is gonna update really really really slowly I’m so sorry, but I’ll try to make it worth it to anyone even reads this.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy the feels overload :)

_Water in his lungs, he breathes, gasping for breath and clutching for him._

Jack is in the pantry, Alana is outside in the rain, and Will is pointing a gun at his daughter. 

“Abigail?”

She’s standing there, shaking from fear or excitement or anticipation, Will can’t quite tell. All he knows is that Abigail is there, quietly sobbing and shaking. 

“I didn’t know what to do so I… I just did what he told me,” she whispers, her voice a broken melody on his ear. 

“Where is he?” Will demands once his gun is lowered. Where is the man who did this?

She shakes her head and quivers like a feather in the wind, her lips tugged into a warbling line. Her eyes flick to something behind Will, and his blood goes cold as he realizes who stands behind him. He turns around quickly, staring at Hannibal with wide eyes. He doesn’t know what fills him, fear or relief. Perhaps both. Relief at the sight of Hannibal in one piece, but fear, knowing that Hannibal is still here and not running away like he promised. 

“You were supposed to _leave_ ,” Will whispers, his voice breaking and filled with urgency. 

_You were supposed to leave and I was supposed to stay._

“We couldn’t leave without you,” Hannibal murmurs, his eyes glancing over at Abigail. 

Will begins shaking as well, and he looks back at Abigail, wondering if she was just another hopeful hallucination. If this was all another fucked up dream his mind has woven for him. But the antlers and the wendigo creature doesn’t lurk in the shadows, and Hannibal is Hannibal before him, not a monster. Not a hallucinated one, at least. 

“She’s real, Will,” Hannibal murmurs. “This is real.”

_Is it? Or is it all in his head as he enters his watery grave?_

Will laughs bitterly, terrified and elated by Hannibal’s insight into his mind. This Hannibal is real. This Abigail is… alive. She’s alive and breathing and with Hannibal. Will didn’t kill Abigail. The relief that washes over him is intoxicating, and he laughs shakily. In this world, he didn’t kill Abigail. _Abigail is alive._ He watches his hands holding his gun shake. _Abigail is alive._ He looks back up at Hannibal and tries to smile as Hannibal nears him. _Abigail is alive._ Hannibal’s face is painted with blood, and his eyes are filled with this… sadness Will can’t quite place. 

_Why are you in pain?_ He silently asks. _Why do you mourn? Abigail is alive, I didn’t kill her, you didn’t kill her, she’s safe. She’s safe, Hannibal._

Will shudders and thinks to Jack, who’s dying or dead in the pantry. Jack, who was supposed to come here with Will. They were supposed to come together and talk to Hannibal together. Will was supposed to… fight with Hannibal. Kill with him. Kill Jack and run away to God knows where. Anywhere. This was what was intended by them in every world, every version of their lives. 

And yet, as he stands there, shaking, he knows he wouldn’t have killed Jack. He… couldn’t kill Jack. Not in this world. His death is convenient but it isn’t… righteous. It isn't redeemed and with purpose. So Will knows that he would have sided with Jack and told Hannibal to run, run away to where no one could ever find him again. Run away to some place in Europe where the wine is sweet and the air is crisp, and people dress to Hannibal’s standards. Will would have stayed and lived out his normal life (as normal as it gets for Will, anyways) with his dogs and Alana and Jack and the FBI. He would have tried to escape the marks Hannibal has left in his mind and soul. 

_In this world._

He would have told Hannibal to leave him, and he would try not to cry as he stands beside Jack. Because this was the righteous thing to do. This _is_ the righteous thing to do. Hannibal is dangerous and Will is not like him. Will isn’t a killer like Hannibal. Not in this world. 

A glint of silver is in Hannibal’s hand and suddenly Hannibal’s pain all makes sense as Will watches himself through Hannibal’s eyes for just a brief moment. Watches himself through his own eyes. 

_You think I’ve betrayed you, because you know who I would have stood by._

It takes a moment for Will to react to the hand that cradles his cheek, to the thumb caressing his cheekbone. To that fond but heartbroken expression on Hannibal’s face.

“No no no,” Will stammers, staggering back and away from Hannibal. _I would have never hurt you. Not now. Not in this world. Not that I finally… see you. I wanted you to run. Run away, for God’s sake why didn’t you run? I would never kill you because your death would give me nothing. No pleasure, no righteousness, nothing. I can’t kill you. Not in any world._

“Hannibal,” Will whispers as Hannibal nears him. Hannibal isn’t even stalking towards him, like Will imagines him doing so with all of his past victims. With the people he considered animals only fit for his dinner table. 

Hannibal isn’t stalking Will like he would with his prey. Hannibal is nearing him the way a parent approaches their crying child, the way Will approaches stray dogs: with caution and love in their eyes. 

“Hannibal,” Will gasps, trying to force the words out of his mouth, an explanation past his lips. “Why didn’t you run?”

He can clearly see the knife in Hannibal’s hand, a curved, beautiful thing. 

“You were supposed to leave,” he whispers, unable to leave, himself, frozen in place. Fear has snatched him and chained his feet to the floor of Hannibal’s kitchen, and he can’t run. He wants to run, but he can’t decide to where. To Abigail? To Alana’s body in the rain? To Jack?

To Hannibal? 

But the animal in Will understands the need to survive, so he racks his brain for something momentous, something brilliant to stop Hannibal from killing him. To convince Hannibal that he never wanted to see this beautiful monster burn to ashes. Will can’t kill Hannibal, and he can’t run away. 

So Will throws his mind into overdrive and collides with the construction of Hannibal he has in his mind. Hannibal is nearing him with a knife in hand, because he thinks that Will has betrayed him. He is nearing slowly, because he wants Will to do something about this. But what does he do? He can’t fathom the pain in Hannibal’s eyes and he can’t understand Abigail’s presence in the room and — 

Oh. Stupid. He should have realized this sooner. 

_This is out of love. This is how his kind show their love._

Hobbs loved his daughter with a murderous passion, and Hannibal isn’t that different. Death encompasses his entire life, and judging by the way Hannibal reaches out to Will, this isn’t different from the way Garret Jacob Hobbs slit Abigail's throat.

_This is out of love. In every world, this was always his love._

Will wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, of the way Hannibal portrays his love. Hannibal’s love is deadly, a madness that has driven Will into the deepest parts of his mind. But Will can’t laugh. He can’t laugh because he finally _understands._ He can see the possessiveness and adoration and love through Hannibal’s eyes, and he can remember the nightmares or dreams he’s had about Hannibal’s love. Will understands this love, and he knows that this is his ticket to survival. Love. 

_This is his gift to me. The teacup that dared to come together._

_Please work,_ he whispers in his mind before betting his entire life and sanity on the final step he takes towards Hannibal. 

_Let me rewrite our tragedy._

Will collides with Hannibal and kisses him with a desperate shudder, dragging Hannibal’s body against his own. The knife in Hannibal’s hand scrapes against his side, striking fear into Will, but it doesn’t touch his flesh and it doesn’t draw blood. It instead clatters against the floor with his gun and suddenly Hannibal is pulling Will against him as well, and they’re grasping at each other with bloody hands and tears in their eyes. The kiss isn’t much to brag about, simply lips against lips, but it’s everything Will needs. Contact that explains everything that Will can’t say with this fear burning through his body. 

_I see you. I finally see you._

He’s tempted to laugh, but he’s also terrified as he kisses Hannibal, the monster of a man who kills to show his love. 

Will is hyper aware of every part of Hannibal he is touching, and he memorises each touch that sends fire running through him. Their chests are pressed up against each other firmly, the buttons of their shirts poking each other. His hands are tangled into Hannibal’s hair, the fuzz of the shorter parts lightly scraping against his palms. Hannibal’s hands are pressed behind his head and between his shoulder blades, guiding him into Hannibal’s touch. Their legs are chaotically holding their bodies up, and Will is pretty sure that he’s stepping on a bit of Hannibal’s left shoe. 

Hannibal’s lips are soft against his own chapped ones, and they remind Will of water as they slide over the sharp edges of dried dead skin on his lips. Will’s own lips quiver against Hannibal’s steady lips, as if he was whispering a frantic prayer to this man who represents every beautiful aspect of the devil Will dreams about. Blood stains his cheek and the smell invades Will’s senses, but it’s natural in this moment. It’s always natural. Blood is at every damn crime scene Jack throws him into, blood has been stolen from his body, and blood has bathed the man he’s currently kissing. 

Blood bathes Hannibal, and Will can’t find the will to care, because this is almost dreamlike but it feels so _real._ It’s stabbing into Will’s soul and he cannot doubt the reality of this desperate bid he’s molded into a kiss. This is real. This is the design he makes for himself, in this world. 

They break apart moments later, and Hannibal’s eyes are filled with a joy that Will can’t help but smiling at. This is the real Hannibal Lecter. This is the devil he has sold himself to. 

_I can’t betray you._

_I tried._

_Trust me, I tried._

_But as I stare into your damned eyes and damned soul, I can’t run away from the reflection I see, no matter how much I want to. I can’t run from this. I can’t run from the world you’ve molded for me._

“Time did reverse,” Hannibal murmurs, brushing the wet hair out of Will’s eyes. His eyes are fond and filled with this… emotion that Will can’t quite name or describe. It has the power of waves crashing against a cliff, or thunder slamming into the sky. “I wanted to surprise you. The teacup that I shattered did come together.”

Will shakes and turns in Hannibal’s arms to face Abigail.

“A place was made for Abigail in your world,” Hannibal murmurs. “For all of us. Together.”

Abigail has tears brimming her eyes, and Will’s vision is blurred by tears as well.

“Abagail,” Hannibal says in a steady voice, holding a hand out for her. “Come to us.”

With little hesitation, Abigail breaks away from the place she was frozen at and she runs to Will and Hannibal. She throws herself into Will’s opening arms, and he holds her as if these were her last moments. He cries as if these were his last moments.

“Thank you,” Will chokes out, falling to the floor with Abigail in his arms. “Thank you.”

_Thank you, I whisper to the Devil, for this world of mended teacups._


	2. The Dead Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii everybody! So this chapter is a bit slow and a bit boring (I’m sorry pls don’t kill me) BUT IT IS NECESSARY TO INTRODUCE THE FBI SIDE OF THINGS. 
> 
> The next chapter will be pure Hannigram concerning their travels to Europe, so don’t worry. I will write the gay.
> 
> Edited: June 30, 2019

The woman dressed in black rushes down the street and a red umbrella over her head stops the rain from cascading down onto her, instead channeling the water around her like a wall. She wears black boots that splash water from the puddles, but she doesn’t seem bothered by this at all. She has only one thing in her mind: her destination. 

 

She arrives at the richly designed house and hesitates in order to stare at the faint lights from inside the house. The front rooms aren’t lit, but from what she can see, the kitchen and upstairs have their lights on. They should still be home, then. After a deep breath, she pushes open the gate to the front yard, marching towards the front door with full confidence, but she freezes once she sees the shards of glass reflecting moonlight and lying around the bleeding body. Black and white paint a morbid picture, and looking up, the woman sees the broken window from the second floor. 

 

“Shit,” the woman murmurs, running forward and dropping to her knees next to the body. It’s a woman dressed in blue and black, and her breath comes in short pants. She numbly recognizes the dying woman as Alana Bloom, the doctor who worked with Will Graham. 

 

“Dr Bloom?” She says, using her umbrella to cover Alana’s face. Gently, she brushes a strand of hair and some shards of glass out of Alana’s face. “Dr Bloom, can you hear me?” 

 

Alana’s eyes peer at her with agony, and she nods ever so slightly before gasping out, “They’re gone.”

 

The woman freezes for a moment, a detail going unnoticed by Alana. “Who’s gone?”

 

Alana shakes her head slightly and moans in pain. “He’s gone,” she whispers before fluttering her eyes shut and breathing deeply.

 

The woman mutters a curse and pulls out her phone, dialing 911. She quickly informs the man on the phone her situation and location before shoving the phone back in her pocket. Carefully, she positions the umbrella over Alana so it protects her face from the rain, and then she stands and runs to the house. The door is unlocked, and she doesn’t hesitate to barge in. 

 

“Hannibal!” She shouts, storming through the house and arriving at the brightly lit kitchen. “Hannibal!” Her voice sounds like an angry mother calling for her child, and she’s furious as she sees blood pooling out from under a door.  _ Dammit.  _

 

She opens it to find a half dead black man slumped against the wall.  _ Agent Crawford _ , her mind quietly reminds her. She makes no move to help him, knowing that the police are on their way anyways, and instead rushes off to search the rest of the house. Doors are thrown open and she shouts Hannibal’s name a few more times, storming through the house and pounding down the stairs, but she knows that he’s gone. He made his bloody exit and now he’s probably on his way to France or Italy or Germany or somewhere no one will know his name.

 

She makes her way back to the kitchen, and standing in the middle of it, she kicks the cabinet doors laughs bitterly, hanging her head in defeat before craning her neck to look at the white ceiling. The light shines on her face and reveals what the rain has stained: a striking image of Hannibal. 

 

“Of course you’d disappear now,” she murmurs. “Just as soon as I made up my mind.”

 

Sighing, she runs back out to Alana in the rain, crouching down and keeping the dying woman company. “You don’t happen to know where they ran off to, do you?” She asks Alana, but her question goes unheard. 

 

The ambulances and police arrive within the next minute, apparently looking for a man who called for them. So someone else was here before her. Did Hannibal call the police, just for the fun of it? Or maybe Graham did? 

 

She explains her situation to them and they are quick to tend to the bodies and interrogate her. 

 

“Your name, ma’am?” One of them ask her.

 

She clears her throat “Annabelle DuBois. D-u-B-o-i-s,” she murmurs. “Do you need a middle name?”

 

The man shakes his head. “This should be enough for now, but we would like to ask some more questions later, especially when the FBI get here.”

 

DuBois nods. “Of course.”

 

She answers some more questions, answering all but a few with complete honesty. She tells them that she was walking to the bus station when she saw Alana on the ground, and she has no idea whose house this is. Yes, she saw Jack Crawford inside, but she didn’t want to touch him, since she was afraid of making any more damage. No, she does not know Hannibal Lecter and did not see anyone else besides Dr Bloom and Agent Crawford.

 

They let her go after a fair amount of questions, promising to call her later. She nods with a sad smile, and calls a taxi to take her home.

 

_ You just had to leave the night I made up my mind, didn’t you, Hannibal?  _

 

~O~

 

Jack Crawford is pissed as fuck, and a very specific cannibal is going to suffer the terrible wrath of one Agent Crawford. 

 

Will Graham - the jewel of Crawford’s blood-tainted and madness molded crown - is missing. Has been kidnapped. Is being held hostage by none other than the great Chesapeake Ripper. And it’s  _ all _ Jack’s fault. Jack shouldn’t have pushed Will to the edge like this. Jack should have seen Hannibal’s evil quicker. Jack should have believed Will when he saw what no one else could.

 

The monster in Hannibal Lecter.

 

So, Jack mourns, pacing the room and rubbing his forehead with a heavy hand that smells faintly of metal. Alana sits in the room with him, her eyes falsely cold and her mouth in a thin line. She’s recently been released from intensive care, and now she hobbles around with a cane and an intense atmosphere of anger following her. She sighs deeply and clasps her hands together in her lap, looking up at and preparing for her next words.

 

“We did everything we could,” she whispers.

 

Jack shakes his head. “No. We didn’t.” He turns almost violently towards Alana and stalks towards her. “Will saw him. Will  _ saw  _ the damned Chesapeake Ripper, the Copycat Killer,  _ Hannibal the damned Cannibal _ and none of us believed him. None of us! Will Graham has never been wrong about these things and yet I still didn’t believe him!” He sighs and plops down on the armrest of the couch Alana perches on. “And now Will is gone. Dead, for all I know.” 

 

Alana shakes her head. “If Will were dead, Hannibal would make sure we knew.”

 

Jack laughs bitterly at that. “Would we? Or would some innocent guest at his dinner table be tasting him?”

 

“Hannibal wouldn’t,” Alana whispers.

 

“You sure?” Jack says, standing again and walking towards the window, glaring out. “Because none of know how Hannibal thinks. None of us. Only Will can grasp the mindset Hannibal lives in. Only Will.”

 

“And Hannibal knew that,” Alana says with gentle force. “He knew Will could see him for what he really is, and he would cherish that. He wouldn’t just throw him away.”

 

Jack nods. “I hope you’re right.”

 

Alana nods. “Me too,” she murmurs, her words lost to Jack’s ears. 

 

A knock startles the both of them, and Alana clears her throat as Jack walks to the door and opens it. A bright-eyed woman stands there, a kind smile on her lips. She has pale gold hair pinned up into a low bun and a maroon coat on. 

 

“Ms DuBois,” Jack says, stepping to the side and allowing the woman to enter. “Thank you for coming.”

 

Ms DuBois bows her head quickly and smiles. “Thank you for seeing me.” She turns her head to Alana and flashes her a small smile. This woman seems to kind and innocent, sending nostalgia through Alana. Was she once like this?

 

“Please, sit,” Jack says, gesturing to the seat across from Alana and Ms DuBois quickly sits down, crossing her ankles underneath her seat. Jack takes his seat next to Alana, and he laces his fingers and looks to DuBois. 

 

Her eyes keep flicking everywhere, and Alana would almost peg her as nervous. But she isn’t, only taking in everything in the room. She doesn’t meet their eyes for long periods of time, only glancing at their eyes and then looking at other features of their faces. Alana notices that she focuses on both of their lips and eyebrows. Strange. 

 

“Ms DuBois, I apologize about the… atmosphere and chaos at the FBI. I know it must have been hectic while you were trying to get in contact with us,” Jack says, leaning forward and staring firmly at DuBois, his gaze unrelenting and unforgiving.

 

DuBois shakes her head. “No no, it’s fine. Understandable. Hannibal the Cannibal was unleashed, I would be worried if you weren’t in chaos.”

 

Alana chuckles shortly, sighing lightly after. “Are people actually calling him that?”

 

DuBois shrugs. “Freddie Lounds has great power over the media of murder and crime.”

 

Jack sighs. “Too true.”

 

“Do you mind if we move to first name basis?” Alana asks, trying to gauge DuBois’ mindset in this situation. Jack subtly looks at her with eyes that scream,  _ what the hell are you doing?  _ But Alana ignores him. 

 

DuBois shrugs slightly. “Annabelle Procel DuBois. I hate my first name, so if we attempt to create a more casual and personal atmosphere, call me Procel.”

 

Alana nods. “Procel, then?”

 

Procel smiles. “Sure,  _ Alana.” _

 

Jack gives Alana another not so subtle questioning look, but Alana doesn’t meet his eyes. She’s too caught up in Procel’s suddenly challenging gaze which bores into her skull, absolutely no fear or shame present in her eyes. Why the sudden drastic change?

 

Jack clears his throat and gets on with business. “So, Ms DuBois,” he says. Both Alana and Procel note Jack’s refusal to call her by her personal name. “We received your recommendation from Dr Hummel in Washington a few weeks ago.”

 

Procel nods. 

 

“He seemed to have a lot of faith in your abilities of tracking down killers,” Jack says. “Strange for you to be the one to find the leftovers of one of our biggest killers here.” 

 

Procel narrows her eyes playfully at Jack. “This sounds a lot like an accusation,  _ Agent _ Crawford,” She drawls, suddenly seeming very cheeky.

 

Jack shrugs slowly. “We have to cover all of our bases.”

 

Procel nods. “Understandable. But I assure you, I’m not linked to Hannibal.”

 

Jack gives her a playful disbelieving look, and Alana is tempted to give him her best bitchface. She’ll settle for her third best. 

 

“You show up to work in Will Graham’s area the moment Will Graham is taken out of the picture,” Jack says. “It’s one hell of a coincidence.”

 

“Jack,” Alana hisses lowly at him, but Jack merely waves her off. 

 

“Like I said, we’re just covering all of our bases,” Jack says sweetly, but everyone in the room can smell the sour tinge to his words. 

 

Procel smiles. “Of course. You wouldn’t want to let yet another monster into your inner circle.”

 

Alana’s eyes widen at Procel’s words, and Jack is doing his best to keep his rage inside. She’s right. He doesn’t want to let another monster into his inner circle. But he also doesn’t want to lose another friend. He lost Miriam. He lost Will. He doesn’t want this smiling, rebellious psychologist to be lost as well.

 

Jack manages a halfhearted chuckle. “You’ve got some spunk in you, DuBois,” he says, forcing his mind onto better things.

 

Procel ducks her head in sudden shame and her face is ablaze with a blush. Alana hears her mutter, “Oh my lord why did I say that,” and she has to smile at that. Procel seems like an interesting soul, and Alana could use some innocents in her life.

 

The rest of the conversation continues without many offensive comments, and afterwards, Procel apologizes profusely to Jack and he smiles at her and tells her it’s okay. She is right, after all. 

 

Alana walks Procel out to the parking lot, and they make small talk as they walk. 

 

“Why do you hate the name Annabelle?” Alana asks as they walk towards the elevator.

 

Procel smiles softly and presses the button for the ground floor. “That stupid horror movie with the doll. I hate horror films.”

 

Alana laughs gently. “And yet you want to work with the FBI.”

 

Procel shrugs, leaning against the mirror in the elevator. “I can do something about the cases I’m given. I can catch the killer. Doesn’t mean I enjoy it, though.”

 

Alana looks at her inquisitively. “Then why do it?”

 

“Because I need to,” Procel murmurs. “I’m good at it and I have a promise to keep. I’ve seen too much shit in the world to just ignore it.”

 

Alana nods and they don’t speak again until they exit the building. 

 

“Jack will send you a call when we get another case,” Alana says. “And maybe even ask for your opinion on how to catch Hannibal.”

 

Procel nods, putting her hands in the pockets of her red coat. “As much as Agent Crawford distrusts me, I would like to help in the search for Hannibal.”

 

Alana laughs shortly. “Well, as much as Agent Crawford hates to admit it, we need all the help we can get.”

 

“Oh yes,” Procel murmurs as they near Alana’s car. “He won’t be an easy one to find.”

 

They exchange goodbyes and Alana climbs into her car and Procel walks over to her motorcycle, unlocking the seat to retrieve her helmet, and she waves to Alana as she drives away. Climbing on, she drives back home and contemplates her next move with the FBI. 

 

~O~

 

A phone is buzzing terribly loudly at god knows when in the morning.

 

_ If it’s that jackass from the bar, I’m killing him,  _ Procel mutters in her mind as she fumbles for her cell phone on the table next to her bed. She squints as the light from the phone stabs into her eyes, and she barely makes out the time (3:32 AM) and the caller ID (Crawford).

 

_ This better be interesting.  _

 

“‘Ello?” She grumbles into the phone, not even bothering to sound professional.

 

“Ms DuBois! Glad to see you’re awake,” Jack says from the other end.

 

“Is there a reason why you’ve called?” She mutters as she sits up on the bed. 

 

“There is, actually,” Jack says, his tone dropping into something more serious. “There’s been a murder. I want your opinion on it.”

 

Procel laughs bitterly. “You want me to read the scene like Graham does?” 

 

Jack is silent for a moment, and she hears him take in a sharp breath. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I want you to read the scene.”

 

“Text me the address and I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Procel says before hanging up and swinging her legs off the bed. She groans and hangs her head as she glares at the clock on her phone.

 

3:34 AM.

 

Grumbling, she drags herself off the bed and into the bathroom, quickly brushing her teeth and combing her hair and pulling it into something decent. She pulls out black and blue clothes, hoping that they won't create too much of a fashion disaster, and she’s out the door with her black boots tugged loosely onto her feet. 

 

The air is refreshingly crisp in the mornings, but when it’s 3:40 AM, not so much. But, she ignores the cold as she pulls on her helmet because she needs to impress Crawford. He’s probably calling her just to make he prove her worth, anyways. She can’t just back down, she has to prove him wrong. She is worth everything in this shitty world. 

 

The address is plugged into her phone (through Waze, a god-sent app) and she glances at the map before putting in her headphones and listening to a monotone Siri-like voice tell her where to go. Surprisingly, she doesn’t get lost, and she’s at the location in twelve minutes. 

 

It’s an old house in the poorer parts of the area, and there is already a small fleet of police mulling about the property. Someone spots her once she removes her helmet and they wave her over as they half jog towards her.

 

“You’re DuBois, right?” The man says, a scruffy beard on his face along with shadows under his eyes. “The new - “ he clears his throat, preventing himself from saying  _ the new Will Graham,  _ “- the new criminal profiler?”

 

Procel smiles kindly and sticks out her hand with a small nod in greeting. 

 

The man takes it and shakes her hand with a single, firm movement. “I’m Brian Zeller, I do all of the science-y details around here.”

 

“No he doesn’t,” another man grumbles as he shuffles into the scene, a box under his arm. “Jimmy Price,” he says, extending his hand to Procel. “The other half of the science-y team.”

 

Procel shakes his hand and smiles. “Pleasure to meet you.”

 

The man scoffs but smiles at her. “Come on, Jack is sulking inside. Don’t wanna keep him waiting.”

 

“Nope,” Zeller agrees, marching towards the eerie house. 

 

Procel follows them in, a small smile on her face. She likes this team, they seem humorous and members of the better part of humanity. The house is filled with photographers and little numbered stands, marking the place with the sterile study of death. Zeller and Price seem to be at home in this environment, making small comments to each other about various things, including… bees? Procel isn’t sure. 

 

Jack is in the kitchen - where the victim lies dead - and his hands are in pockets as he angrily glares at the body on the floor. He glances up when he hears Zeller and Price entering, and he meets Procel’s steady gaze. 

 

“You know,” Jack says to Procel. “After nearly dying at Hannibal’s hand, I considered leaving the FBI. Resigning. Living a life away from all of this…” He gestures to the body and the blood. “Death.” 

 

Procel stands beside him and looks down at the bloody heap of a body, and she hums quietly. “Believe it or not, Agent Crawford, I’m not surprised that you stayed.”

 

Jack laughs shortly. “And why is that?”

 

She shrugs. “Strength. Or rather, a demand for it. Hannibal nearly killed you, and I assume a part of you wants to keep living the way you always have as a way to… prove him wrong.”

 

Jack nods slowly, pursing his lips and not disagreeing. “Perhaps.” He sighs and looks down at the body. “Misha Williams. Thirty eight years old, lived alone, worked part time at John Hopkins, and murdered a few hours ago. Neighbors heard screaming, and soon enough, we found this.”

 

Procel nods.  _ You were named Misha? Funny. _

 

“Everyone clear!” Jack bellows, and the everyone in the room (minus Zeller and Price) scurry away like startled mice. He rubs his forehead before taking a deep breath before leaning closer to Procel and whispering in a slow and deliberate voice, “What do you see?”

 

Procel squats down to more closely inspect the body, and music begins filters into her mind. She closes her eyes, letting the appropriate music fill her mind, and she smirks when My Chemical Romance fills her mind. Of course it would be MCR. Oh well, she can work with this. 

  
_ Well it rains and it pours when you're out on your own _ _   
_ _ If I crash on the couch, can I sleep in my clothes _ _   
_ _ 'Cause I spent the night dancing, I'm drunk I suppose _ _   
_ _ If it looks like I'm laughing _ _   
_ _ I'm really just asking to leave this alone _ __   
  


A man stalks into the room, a sick delight ablaze in his face. 

 

_ You're in time for the show _ _   
_ _ You're the one that I need _ _   
_ _ I'm the one that you loathe _ _   
_ _ You can watch me corrode _ _   
_ _ Like a beast in repose _ _   
_ _ 'Cause I love all the poison away with the boys in the band _ __   
  


He shakes with anticipation, high on the thrill of the kill 

 

_ I've really been on a bender and it shows _ _   
_ _ So why don't you blow me _ _   
_ _ A kiss before she goes _ __   
  


The music ringing in Procel’s mind means nothing to him, of course, but the music guides Procel through the scene, setting the tone of this murder. 

 

_ Give me a shot to remember _ _   
_ _ And you can take all the pain away from me _ __   
  


He slams a blunt object against his victim’s head - that’s all she is, an unfortunate victim to his delights - and Procel pauses, wondering what it is he used. A frying pan? There is a bloody one a few feet away, so Procel assumes that must be the initial weapon he used. 

 

_ Your kiss and I will surrender _ _   
_ _ The sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead _ _   
_ _ A light to burn all the empires _ __   
  


There is delight in this kill. But not a calculated delight, like the way Hannibal delighted in his kills, no, this is different. Very different. 

 

_ So bright the sun is ashamed to rise and be _ _   
_ _ In love with all of these vampires _ _   
_ _ So you can leave like the sane, abandon me _ __   
  


This is a child playing with paint with his hands. 

 

_ There's a place in the dark where the animals go _ _   
_ _ You can take off your skin in the cannibal glow _ __   
  


He has made this woman puddy in the most basic sense in his hands, and she can imagine some insane child laughing as they beat this poor woman to death. 

 

_ Juliet loves the beat and the lust it commands _ _   
_ _ Drop the dagger and lather the blood on your hands, Romeo _ __   
  


And this death isn’t a reaction to something. This kill was planned, but the plan itself was lacking. 

 

_ I've really been on a bender and it shows _ _   
_ _ So why don't you blow me _ _   
_ _ A kiss before she goes _ __   
  


Kill the lady and delight in it. 

 

_ Give me a shot to remember _ _   
_ _ And you can take all the pain away from me _ _   
_ _ Your kiss and I will surrender _ _   
_ _ The sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead _ _   
_ _ A light to burn all the empires _ __   
  


Run away. 

 

_ So bright the sun is ashamed to rise and be _ _   
_ _ In love with all of these vampires _ _   
_ _ So you can leave like the sane, abandon me _ __   
  


Giggle as he falls into his den of nightmares. 

 

_ Give me a shot to remember _ _   
_ _ And you can take all the pain away from me _ _   
_ _ Your kiss and I will surrender _ _   
_ _ The sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead _ _   
_ _ A light to burn all the empires _ __   
  


Smile as he daydreams about his next kill. 

 

_ So bright the sun is ashamed to rise and be _ _   
_ _ In love with all of these vampires _ _   
_ __ So you can leave like the sane, abandon me

 

“This is a child,” Procel murmurs as she stands, facing Jack. “This wasn’t anger, self defense, or a reaction to something. This was pure… delight.” Nothing special. Nothing too dangerous.

 

Jack nods and contemplates her words for a moment. “Will he kill again?”

 

Procel nods. “And his next victim will suffer a lot more than this one did,” she murmurs, cringing at the way Zeller pokes at the wounds. “This was a trial run.” 

 

Jack laughs bitterly. “Excellent. Z, what have we got?”

 

Zeller looks up quickly and explains the lack of fingerprints with a smile on his face. Strange person. Cute, but strange. As far as Zeller and Price can tell, there isn’t anything to identify the killer with. Everything was horribly chaotic, but there isn’t any blood, fingerprints, DNA, hair, or anything incriminating. 

 

“The guy’s clean,” Zeller muses as he pokes and prods at the lump once known as Ms Williams’ face. “And this lady is a mess. Nothing classy about this kill.”

 

“You sound like you miss Hannibal’s kills,” Procel comments, quietly. 

 

She’d held expected Zeller to laugh or at least crack a half hearted smile, but his expression droops and suddenly he’s solemn. 

 

“Maybe,” he whispers, shifting in his crouch to poke at another part of the body. “But Hannibal is just as sick as this guy.”

 

Procel shrugs. “Just in a different manner. A much… neater manner.”

 

Price is the one who laughs now, although bitterly. “Sure. Neat! That’s a way to put it.”

 

Jack sighs and puts a heavy hand on Procel’s shoulder. “We lost people to Hannibal,” he murmurs to Procel as Prize and Zeller quietly bicker away about stitches. “Beverly Katz, the third member of the forensics team, found Hannibal’s identity and went to find evidence.”

 

Procel eyes Jack carefully, watching how his composure breaks and the darkness builds in his eyes. 

 

“She found the evidence, that’s for sure,” he mutters, more to himself than to Procel. He clears his throat before continuing. “Hannibal killed her and displayed her. He split her body into slits and put them in glass displays, for all the world to see.”

 

Procel vaguely remembers something about a death like this, involving the Ripper (aka Hannibal). She remembers being horrified. 

 

~O~

 

Alana and Procel sit at a table at a fairly decent bar, drinking wine instead of beer and talking about murder. Alana asks about the case Jack has given her, and Procel explains the basic of the scenario. A man who has become addicted to the thrill of the kill and the power it gives someone. The freedom and insanity it gives people. 

 

The standard killer, Procel thinks. But she can’t help thinking of that poor lady’s name, Misha. It probably means nothing, but it’s one hell of a coincidence. A woman named Misha dies the moment Hannibal runs away. Again. 

 

“So, Ms DuBois,” Alana drawls as she takes a sip of her wine. “Why the FBI? Why not some small police force or the academy?”

 

Procel scoffs as she drinks a sip of her own drink. “The usual things. Tragic backstory and the need for vengeance.”

 

“Is Hannibal a part of your vengeance?” Alana asks, watching Procel with scrutinizing eyes. 

 

Procel smiles wryly. “I am not here on a mission to exact my revenge upon Hannibal, Alana. I have nothing personal against the man. I have never met him and I don’t plan to ever meet him. However, I have met his kind. Creatures that think they’re something equal to  _ God,  _ so they dangle their victims like puppets and display them to the world, showing off their beauty in death.”

 

Alana’s eyes narrow, contemplating her word choice. “Why use the word puppets? I mean, I agree with you completely about your point, but I feel like what Hannibal does isn’t… puppeteering. It’s manipulation, yes, but… he gives them free will and manipulates the choices they can make, rather than blinding them completely and using them to kill people.”

 

“Perhaps. I think Hannibal sees us less as puppets and more as… animals. Simple things that can be easily taught tricks.” Procel leans back and drinks another sip. “But concerning your question about puppets, remember that killer in Washington? The Puppeteer?”

 

She nods. “He was caught eventually, right?”

 

Procel nods. “I caught him.”

 

Alana smiles and bows her head. “Good job.”

 

“Thank you. Like I’ve said, my job here does not concern revenge or tragedy. I am here because I want to do what others cannot. But, I  _ was _ chasing the Puppeteer for very personal reasons.”

 

Alana’s eyes soften in understanding. “You lost someone to him.”

 

Procel nods. “I did. A bit of backstory: I was married some years ago, and it was a good marriage, nothing tragic or dramatically beautiful. I was young, so was he, and we just kind of fell into place together. He died in a car crash, nothing special, so I was left alone with our little girl, Gail.”

 

Alana doesn’t look away from Procel. 

 

“As a single mom, I was busy,” Procel says slowly, a small smile on her lips and sadness in her eyes. “I worked three jobs and was trying to get my psychology degree so I could finally begin practice. I was working at a museum at the time, I think, and a neighbor was watching Gail. Normal routine for our family. I came back home after… three or four hours? Something like that. The door was open when I got home, and at first, I thought nothing of it, assuming that the neighbor had opened it to let in some air or something.”

 

Alana watches her carefully, watching for a sign of madness or a need for revenge in Procel’s eyes, but she can’t find it. Not yet. 

 

“So I walked in, calling out for Gail.” Procel touches her fingertips to her lips as she prepares for her next words. “But, in the living room, the neighbor was dead, beaten into a bloody pulp on the floor. I didn’t even bother to check if she was alive. She barely looked human anymore. So instead, I ran upstairs to my bedroom (where Gail usually hides when she’s scared) and there she was…” 

 

Alana sees bitterness in Procel’s eyes for a short moment, and then pain. A soft, elegant, pain. 

 

“Gail was strung up above my bed, her eyes replaced with glass and her wounds filled with plaster,” Procel whispers softly. “She was four. Only four. Shy child. Liked to draw all over the walls. And there she was, strung up like a puppet.” She takes in a deep breath before continuing. “A child will one day lose their parents to time, but a parent should  _ never _ have to face their child’s death. Time doesn’t take children away from us. Nature doesn’t let us see our creations die. Cruelty does.”

 

Alana tries to understand the bitterness in Procel’s eyes. “I wish I could offer some form of comfort.”

 

Procel shrugs. “It was years ago, so I’ve learned to… live with her ghost in my shadow. But now, I’ve promised myself that I will never…  _ never _ let another mother suffer the same fate I did.” 

 

Alana nods slowly. “But you have to realize that not all monsters will be caught,” she says carefully, hunting for the madness in Procel’s eyes.

 

Procel gives Alana a glimpse of the madness she seeks, and it sends tremors running down her spine. The look of insanity disappears as soon as it comes, but it sends Alana back into another room, the smell of wine filling her head and a firm touch on her waist. 

 

“But Hannibal will be,” Procel murmurs. “The Puppeteer was caught. This… amateur will be caught. And so will Hannibal.”

 

“What makes you so sure?” Alana asks, leaning towards Procel, the glass of wine still in her hands and the smell still lurking in her mind. She sees Hannibal’s smile, his devilish smirk, in her mind and on Procel’s own lips. 

 

Procel smiles gently, almost sweetly, her eyes dark like rich chocolate. “Because I am going to catch them.”

 

Alana nods and purses her lips. “You think you can catch Hannibal? He has been hiding from the law for… his entire life.”

 

Procel smirks. “Oh he’ll be caught. And you want to know why?” She takes the silence as a yes. “Because Hannibal has something to protect, now.” She sips at her wine and smiles widely at Alana. “He would do anything for Abigail and Will.”

 

Alana stiffens at the mention of Hannibal’s captives, the memory of Will’s kiss on her lips and her betrayal when she arguably went running to Hannibal. “Why do you think he took them?”

 

Procel scoffs. “He didn’t take them.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“He didn’t take them,” Procel repeats. “He didn’t… kidnap Abigail and Will. That isn’t a victory to Hannibal. Abigail is his  _ daughter _ , and he loves her the same way Hobbs loved his daughter: with blood and death. Will is the only one who understands Hannibal, and he wouldn’t just… kidnap him. He would persuade him. Beg him to run away with him.”

 

Alana bites at her cheek. “If that’s true, Will and Abigail are-”

 

“Guilty,” Procel mutters. “Murderers.”

 

Alana hangs her head. “Yes. As brutal as it is, they will be considered murderers in the eyes of the law.”

 

“And you don’t want that to happen,” Procel confirms.

 

“I can’t allow that to happen,” Alana mutters into her wine glass. “I won’t let Will and Abigail be blinded by Hannibal.”

 

“They aren’t blind, Alana,” Procel murmurs. “Will especially. He knows exactly what Hannibal is. He was the first one to realize it, after all.”

 

“And Abigail?”

 

“She knows that Hannibal is a killer,” Procel says. “She knows he’s a cannibal. But so was her father. Hannibal is the only person besides Will who knows her inside out and can give her the life she once had.”

 

“The life she had? That was the life of an innocent,” Alana says, echoing the thoughts of herself before Hannibal got inside her. 

 

“You still believe she’s innocent?” Procel asks. “Even after she threw you out the window?”

 

Alana looks away. “I want to. I don’t want to taint the pure image I had of her.”

 

Procel nods. “Understandable.”

 

“But I know that… I know that she knew about the killings,” Alana admits. “I just didn’t want to believe it.”

 

“And now she knows about even more killings,” Procel points out. “She can’t pull the innocent card anymore.”

 

Alana scoffs. “She still can. Hannibal, according to the news, has kidnapped her. She’s being held hostage.”

 

“And yet no demands are being made,” Procel says. “Wait till Lounds gets her claws into that point.”

 

“Freddie Lounds is ours,” Alana says, almost proudly. “There will be no point to dig into.”

 

Procel gives her a congratulatory look. “Impressive. You chained the storm of a woman.”

 

Alana laughs shortly. “Not us. Will. He was the one who tied a leash around her neck and strapped her to the FBI.”

 

“This was during the courtship thing, correct?” Procel asks. “When her supposed body was displayed in three different ways?”

 

Alana raises a brow. “Courtship? What makes you say that?”

 

“Everything,” Procel says. “Two murderers showing their skills to each other in the gentlest ways. Love notes.”

 

Alana doesn’t say anything, remembering the horror of believing Will was the one being courted.

 

“And now they’re probably married somewhere in France,” Procel mutters.

 

“They?”

 

“Hannibal and Will.”

 

Alana has to fight back the rage in her eyes. 

 

“Will’s plan succeeded,” Procel murmurs. “He has completely, utterly seduced Hannibal Lecter.”

 

“How do you know this?” Alana whispers.

 

Procel smiles. “I know people like Hannibal. I know how they work. And because Will knows Hannibal and knows that in order to survive, Hannibal has to be smitten with him and unable to harm him. And I also gossiped with Jack and Hannibal’s psychiatrist.”

 

“DuMaurier?” Alana asks.

 

Procel nods. “Lovely woman, she is. Very poetic as well. Reminds me of Athena, or Hera. Godlike and powerful in the quietest sense.”

 

Alana nods. “She is.”

 

Procel hums in agreement. “And she told me something that I think perfectly fits Will and Abigail’s scenario concerning their guilt. ‘What Hannibal does is not coercion - ’”

 

“‘ - it is persuasion,’” Alana finishes. 

 

Procel nods slowly, deeply. “They are guilty, Alana. But luckily for us, Hannibal loves them. He loves Will, he loves Abigail, so when the time comes - and it will - he will ensure that they are innocent.”

 

~O~

 

Alana wants Hannibal dead. She won’t lie about that. Hannibal made her a promise and he  _ always _ keeps his promises.

 

_ “Walk away, I’ll make no plans to call on you. But if you stay, I will kill you. Be blind, Alana. Don’t be brave.” _

 

So, if she wants to live a long, fulfilling life without becoming dinner, Hannibal has to be  _ out _ of the picture. 

 

Enter Mason Verger, this crazy, rich madman with the perfect plan to take Hannibal down and absolutely no mercy on his mind. A part of Alana is horrified and disgusted when she hears Mason’s plan, but another part - the more dominant part of her mind these days - is… delighted. The idea of making Hannibal suffer just as he has done to so many, it’s elating. He’ll be gone from her life, the sword hanging over her head will be gone, and he will suffer the death he deserves. He’ll probably even be proud of Mason for constructing such a horrible death, Alana tells herself. Who cares about morals, now, when Hannibal’s death is finally a tangible thing? 

 

However, Hannibal isn’t the only one the picture Mason wants to paint.

 

Will is also on Mason’s menu - since he stood by and did nothing as Mason ate his own face off - and by extension, so is Abigail. Mason doesn’t care who dies or who gets in the way of what he wants. And that means that if Mason finds Hannibal first, Will and Abigail will die right alongside him. 

 

That doesn't sit right with Alana. 

 

She tells herself that they knew the risks when they ran away with Hannibal. She tells herself that Will has killed people, just like Hannibal. She tells herself that Abigail chose to stay with killers, and that she could have left him a long time ago if she wanted to.

 

She tells herself that Hannibal hasn’t blinded them like he blinded her.

 

So she stays with Mason and his sister, searching for Hannibal and plotting his death. Mason takes great delight in poking fun at Alana’s previous relationship with Hannibal, and while Alana once would have been horrified and left the house instantly, she kept put. Yes, Hannibal got deeper into her than he did anyone else, literally speaking. Yes, she was in a sexual relationship with him. Yes, she knew Hannibal more intimately than most. Yes, yes, yes. She can deal these jokes, as frustrating and crass as they are. She can deal with Mason because Mason is her ticket to her safety and Hannibal’s death.

 

However, Mason also likes to take a poke at Will.

 

Will, the bride of Frankenstein. Will, the man who seduced Hannibal. Will, the goddamn martyr. Will, the true love of Hannibal. Will, the lonely monster’s companion. Will, the devil’s lover. 

 

Alana can handle her own name being tarnished by this madman. She can handle the sex jokes about her and Hannibal. It’s all in the past. But Will… she can’t handle Will’s name being spat on, because a small part of her agrees with Mason. Will knew Hannibal, saw Hannibal, long before anyone believed him. Will seduced Hannibal in every sense of the word, and Alana was powerless as she watched the two stalk around each other like lions. 

 

She’s seen the way Hannibal looks at Will, the way his gaze softens and his lips quirk up into a small smile, just for Will. The way his eyes lingered on Will’s features, committing them to memory. And she also saw the pain in Will’s eyes when she rejected him and the pain in his eyes when he realized she was sleeping with Hannibal. She saw how he left her behind in the dust, running after Hannibal instead. 

 

It hurts, realizing that Will has willingly run to a monster. 

 

~O~

 

The new killer is caught a week later, with Procel standing over him with a gun pushed against his temple and her phone against her ear.

 

Jack is delighted when he sees her, covered in blood, and she merely shrugs it off.

 

“You caught the killer before Freddie Lounds could even name him,” Jack exclaims in disbelief, rubbing his forehead. “You caught him with your own bare hands.”

 

Procel shrugs again, wiping at the blood off her gloves and shaking the hair out of her eyes. “I know how to catch the monsters, but don’t… don’t let Lounds publish anything about me. Take all the credit. I don’t want any.”

 

Jack’s face says,  _ why?,  _ but he stays professional and pats her on the shoulder. “You’ve done well. Let the medics clean you up and then give Alana and I the breakdown of how you caught him. Lounds won’t know anything.”

 

Procel nods.

 

Procel is very numb as she goes through the standard procedure of things. Dull and emotionless as a medic cleans her small wounds and bandages them. Alana watches her from across the crime scene, a bit numb herself as she glances at the murderer covered in his own blood and kneeling in the filth. Procel did that, and Alana is honestly a bit terrified of the woman whose blond hair is now tainted with a rusty color. 

 

“Alana,” Jack whispers to her as they watch Procel. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

 

Alana looks at him incredulously. “We can’t. We don’t know her.”

 

“Neither does Hannibal,” Jack points out. “Now, obviously there will be further screening that needs to be done and some questions to be asked, but she is our best bet.”

 

“At finding Hannibal?” Alana asks. “It’s too risky.”

 

“Everything is risky,” Jack presses, stepping in front of her as she tries to walk away. “But she is the ticket to his capture.”

 

“She could die,” Alana points out. “Are you ready to lose another agent? Another pawn on your chessboard?”

 

Jack shakes his head and rubs his forehead. “Will is out there, alone with a monster.”

 

“He ran with Hannibal,” Alana points out. “He chose to run away with him.”

 

Jack shakes his head, biting at his lip and looking desperately to Alana. “Will isn’t a killer. He understands killers, yes, but he isn’t a killer. Hannibal would have killed him if he tried to leave him, so running away  _ with _ him was his best option!”

 

“And if we chase after Hannibal, we might lose Procel, Will, and more,” Alana hisses. “This is too dangerous a bet.”

 

“Letting Hannibal go is too dangerous a bet,” Jack mutters. “DuBois is our best bet.”

 

Alana shakes her head and thinks about Mason Verger’s plan. She’s using Mason to kill Hannibal so why is she so… against using Procel to find him? Her thoughts recently have been purely selfish, card after card laid on the table in order to survive. Survival is the only thing on her mind. So maybe with Procel, she is against the idea because Procel isn’t going to find Hannibal in order to kill him. She isn’t fighting with everything she has, whereas Hannibal will be. Hannibal won’t hesitate to kill her and serve her to his new, innocent dinner guests. 

 

“She could bring Will home,” Jack says gravely, a pained and almost guilty look in his eyes. “He could finally rest.”

 

Alana walks away, leaving the scene and slipping into her car. Once inside, she throws her head back against the seat and groans softly. Procel could do what Mason refuses to do: bring Will safely home.

 

How on earth could she say no to that? 

 

~O~

 

Alana rushes out of the Verger mansion, trying to look like she isn’t rushing out of the Verger mansion.

 

Hannibal is in Florence. Mason knows Hannibal is in Florence. Dammit, why did she tell him? Why did she let him find him? 

 

She pulls out her phone hastily and scrolls through quickly in an attempt to find Jack’s number. 

 

“Dammit, where is it?” She hisses under her breath. 

 

She has to tell Jack so they can get a head start. Mason is relying on bounty hunters and money, but Jack can send someone there  _ right now.  _ That’ll either scare Hannibal out of Florence so Will and Abigail will be safe or catch them before Mason kills them. Either way, Will will be safer than he will be with Mason Verger.

 

“Goin’ somewhere?” A voice drawls from behind Alana, and she spins around wildly to face then.

 

Margot Verger is standing there, sauntering down the stairs and looking at Alana with a perfect raised eyebrow. She has this perfect little smirk on her face and it freezes Alana on the spot.

 

“Margot,” Alana says, shoving her phone into her pocket. “Can I help you?”

 

Margot laughs haughtily and nears Alana with a disbelieving look. “Can I help  _ you?  _ You look like the kid who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar.”

 

Alana forces a laugh. “Maybe.”

 

Margot looks at her, expecting something more, and sighs when Alana remains silent. “You seem awfully conflicted about my brother’s plan, Dr Bloom,” Margot points out. “Wanna talk me through it? Share some sob stories?”

 

Alana scoffs. “Do you have any you’re willing to share?”

 

Margot shrugs and takes a step closer to Alana. “Why not? I’ve got nothing to lose. I’ve already lost everything I wanted.”

 

Alana looks at Margot from head to toe and thinks,  _ why not?  _ “Sure.”

 

Margot smirks. “Excellent. You wanna talk over beer or wine?”

 

“Wine,” Alana says as they begin walking towards her car. “I can’t stomach beer after I found out what Hannibal was putting inside mine.”

 

Margot scoffs. “More like  _ who _ he was putting in your beer.”

 

Alana nods. “You’re not wrong,” she mutters as she climbs into the car. 

 

“I’m rarely ever wrong,” Margot says while buckling herself in. “Except when it comes to how far my brother will go to get what he wants. That… that, I’m usually wrong about.”

 

“He’s unpredictable enough. No one blames you for not knowing what his next move is,” Alana says kindly, automatically falling into psychiatrist mode.

 

Margot laughs loudly in one short burst. “I know. No one blames me and they have no right to blame me. But it still  _ sucks,  _ now knowing when he’s going to stab you in the back next.”

 

Alana glances over worriedly at Margot. “Why does that sound like a literal statement?”

 

Margot looks over at her with a mocking expression. “Because, sadly, it is a literal statement. I’ll show you the scars later, don’t worry. I’m an awfully open person about these things, especially when I’m  _ this _ close to someone who can give me children.” She puts her forefinger and thumb close together and throws a sarcastic smirk at Alana. 

 

Alana doesn’t understand the last statement, but she knows that she will in due time. Margot is a good person to stand by when faced with Mason’s fanatics. She’s also slightly insane, so Alana takes comfort in that. She doesn’t know if she can ever go back to spending time with normal, undamaged people. People who worry about bills and grades rather than murderers and insanity. 

 

“So, I’m assuming we’re going to your place and  _ not  _ mine, since I kinda have a psychopathic brother in there,” Margot says as Alana begins driving through the long, winding paths from the mansion. “Or just a bar or something, if you wanna.”

 

Alana casts a glance at Margot. “Would you prefer coming over to my house?”

 

Margot shrugs. “Why not. I can comfortably strip there.”

 

Alana chuckles and a small smile stays on her lips for the remainder of the drive. 

 

~O~

 

“Not gonna lie, Dr Bloom, that honestly sucks,” Margot murmurs as she downs another glass of whiskey. 

 

Alana laughs bitterly. “Yeah. It is.”

 

Margot scoffs and leans towards Alana from her place on the couch. “Wanting to murder the killer, but also being in love with said killer’s husband.”

 

Alana rolls her eyes and sighs heavily. “I’m not in love with Will. I just don’t want to see him get hurt. I’ve grown attached.”

 

Margot nods heavily and shrugs her shoulders a bit. “Understandable. Will seems like an interesting guy. Great in bed, as well.”

 

Alana chokes on her own spit and she stares incredulously at Margot. “What?”

 

Margot eyes Alana. “What? You didn’t know?” When Alana shakes her head, Margot’s eyes widen and she puts down her glass and clasps her hands together. “Well, Dr Bloom, this seems like the perfect moment to transition into my sob story.”

 

Alana opens her mouth to speak, but Margot cuts her off.

 

“Sh, I’m not changing the subject. I’m  _ leading _ into another one,” Margot says.

 

Alana gives her a slightly disapproving expression but remains silent.

 

“Okay, so, a while back I met Will while we were both under Dr Lecter’s care. Obviously, we discussed briefly our tragedies - nothing too deep and personal, don’t worry - and eventually, after showing each other our scars, things kinda led into other things. Half of our clothes were already gone, so it wasn’t much trouble removing the rest and climbing into bed and doing the deed.”

 

Alana is shocked by how easily Will slept with Margot, but she grudgingly accepts this information. It’s not like she can change it, anyways. 

 

“How does this lead into your sob story?” Alana asks softly.

 

Margot smirks a bit when she sees Alana’s shocked and mildly hurt expression, so she scoots closer and presses her shoulder lightly against Alana’s. “Are you jealous?”

 

Alana once would have blushed and told Margot to leave, but she’s grown since then. She reveals only a small shade of rosy pink on her cheeks and instead smiles sadly. “I’m not. Will Graham was unstable -  _ is  _ unstable - and sleeping with him would have only given me more pain.”

 

Margot nods in understanding. “Alright. I can accept that answer. But, to answer your question, there was a very specific reason as to why I slept with Will. I wanted kids. I still do. A son, specifically, so I can kill Mason and still get the money.”

 

Alana merely stares at Margot as she bluntly admits the truth. 

 

“Mason has complete power and control over me, and the only way I can fight back and live to tell the tale is if I get myself a son,” Margot states, pouring herself more whiskey. “And so, I slept with Will and got myself pregnant. I had a plan and Will was fine with the kid and even willing to help raise it. Things were going great.” She then laughs bitterly and throws her head back. Her expression suddenly dies out and she looks at Alana with a gut wrenching, pained expression. “But  _ Mason,  _ he took it all away. I don’t have eggs anymore. I can’t bear any children.” Her voice cracks and Alana has a hard time telling whether or not it’s real.

 

“That’s why you’re interested in me,” Alana murmurs. “I don’t stand beside your brother and I can bear children.”

 

Margot smiles grimly. “You wanna have kids with me, Dr Bloom?”

 

Alana laughs. “We barely know each other, perhaps we should slow down a bit.”

 

Margot shrugs. “Maybe. But, you know, if you’re ever willing to swing my way, I won’t turn you down.”

 

“All for my womb?” Alana asks.

 

“You’re pretty,” Margot says, sipping whiskey. “And badass. So no, not  _ all  _ for your womb.”

 

Alana smirks. “I feel honored.”

 

Margot laughs. “You should. I find most women ugly as hell, so you’re a diamond in the rough. Hot as hell, against my brother,  _ and  _ fertile. It’s a pot of gold.”

 

Alana can’t help but smile at that.

 

~O~

 

“Hello?”

 

“Procel, it’s me, Alana.”

 

A breathy chuckle. “Oh good morning, Dr Bloom. It’s three AM, how can I help you?” The sarcasm is almost tangible, and Alana is having a hard time figuring out Procel. Sarcastic, proper, or something else? 

 

Alana laughs shortly. “I apologize, but it’s an emergency.”

 

A snort. “Apology accepted. I was up anyways, couldn’t sleep and then decided to go for a morning walk.”

 

“At three AM?”

 

“Tell me the emergency, Alana dear.”

 

Alana decides that Procel is much more sarcastic and lively in the mornings. 

 

“I found out where Hannibal is.” 

 

There is silence for a moment, and Alana can hear a sharp intake of breath. “Have you told Jack?” She asks slowly.

 

“Not yet. I will, after I tell you.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

“Because once you know, Jack won’t say no to my idea.” His hands will be tied and Will will be safe. And it’s not even like Jack is against this plan, but she wants control for once. She wants to be the one calling the shots. Jack isn’t calling this, she is. 

 

“Ever consider  _ I _ might say no?” Procel mutters, and Alana isn’t sure whether or not it was meant for her. 

 

“Please don’t,” she says anyways. 

 

Procel laughs. “Only because you said please.”

 

Alana laughs as well. “Thanks.”

 

“So, where is our cannibal?” Procel says, the background sounds now including the beeping of what Alana assumes to be her heater or microwave. 

 

“Florence.”

 

Procel hums. “That makes sense. Seems like the type of place for Hannibal to run to. How’d you figure it out?”

 

“I can’t say. But trust me, he’s there.”

 

Procel sighs but Alana can imagine her nodding. “What’s your plan?”

 

“Catch him,” Alana says. “Fly to Florence and take him down before he can react.”

 

“You’ll probably just spook him. He’ll run the moment he sees you,” Procel points out, her voice a quiet murmur, and Alana can picture her focusing on some other task like breakfast or clothes.

 

“He won’t see me. He won’t see any of us,” Alana says, clearing her throat.

 

There is silence on Procel’s end of the phone, and she can see Procel freezing and listening attentively to the phone.

 

“We’ll be sending you.”

 

Alana hears a sharp laugh followed by a breathy chuckle. “Me? You want to send in the fresh meat and use me to lure him out. Lay a trap for him. Since he’ll have no idea who I am and  _ obviously _ fall for whatever trap I lay for him.”

 

She chooses to ignore the sarcasm dripping from Procel’s comments. Alana is serious about this. “Yes.” She won’t even try to sugarcoat it. “You’ll be bait.”

 

“Bait seems too cruel a word,” Procel says. “I think I’d like to be the lure. Much more romantic connotations with that word. The  _ lure.  _ It’s almost sexual. But I’m not seducing Hannibal, just to be clear. Will has already done that and I’m not getting in the way of  _ that _ whole relationship.”

 

“Of course,” Alana murmurs. “We just need you to make Hannibal feel safe in Florence and help us take him down.”

 

“Easier said than done,” Procel reminds her. “Talk to Jack about it, and we’ll see if he’s willing to send me all the way to Florence for just one guy who may or may not actually be in Florence.”

 

“He’s in Florence, and it’s not just one guy,” Alana whispers. “There’s Will and Abigail, as well.”

 

“They’re not the issue, though, are they? They’re just the victims who have to stay out of the way.”

 

“I don’t think they’ll just stay out of the way,” Alana says, remembering how Abigail pushed her out of a window and how Will looked at Hannibal with this… desire when he continued to evade the FBI. It was pride, almost. 

 

Procel hums. “Neither do I, but that’s the idea.” 

 

Alana nods, even though Procel can’t see it. “When you go…” Alana whispers. “Make sure Will and Abigail stay safe.”

 

Procel stays silent, waiting for the next words on Alana’s tongue,

 

“Please.”

 

Alana can’t see it, but a thin smile stretches across Procel’s lips. “Of course. They will be blameless.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reading this! I hope this chapter wasn’t too boring. I know I found it boring because I’ve read it like a million times and there are still typos and non-well-flowing sections. Oh well. I will continue to edit.


	3. The Street Magician

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gay is here, guys. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Edited July 16, 2019.

You could say they’re running, but they’re limping more than anything else. Steadily limping. Two of them aren’t even limping, and the one who is limping is seriously injured and bleeding everywhere. They barely got out of the house and down the street before DuBois found them, but they don’t know that. They just know that they’re together, and that they have to get somewhere safe. 

 

“Bedelia,” Hannibal murmurs, clutching to Will tightly. “Go to Bedelia’s house.”

 

Will opens his mouth to question why the fuck they would go to Bedelia DuMaurier's house, but Abigail has a look of complete trust on her face and Will remembers the first time he met the woman.

 

_“I believe you.”_

 

Will groans as he realizes that she probably knows the truth about Hannibal, or at least suspects it. No, he isn’t realizing this, he’s known this for a while, he’s just remembering at the moment. _DuMaurier is our best bet, in any world._ In this world, Abigail is alive, Jack and Alana are dying, he kissed Hannibal, and now he’s running away with Hannibal, just like they planned. Running away with Abigail. 

 

As they limp along the streets and struggle to keep Hannibal conscious, Will keeps looking to Abigail in wonder. _She’s alive,_ he keeps thinking. _Abigail is alive._ The teacup has come together and now she’s here, with him. With Hannibal. Alive in a better world. 

 

Now, they just have to stay alive. 

 

Somehow, they manage to steal a car and get it moving, and the heater is a blessing as it warms their soaked bodies. Will drives as Abigail tends to Hannibal in the back seat, but Hannibal will occasionally direct Will on which road to take. He knows where Beledia lives, but it’s a little hard to remember everything when you’ve just kissed a cannibal and realized your daughter is alive. _And when you’re drowning._

 

They arrive at her house soon enough, and Hannibal clambers out of the car - lacking his usual grace but not his aura of… power - and stalks towards the house. He keeps a firm hand on Abigail’s hand - a firm and reassuring hand, one that seems to comfort her rather than scare her - and the other on Will’s. His grip is unwavering and stark, but with his fingers threaded through Will’s, it feels gentle and nervous, conveying a thousand different emotions Will doesn’t have the energy to decipher. The main one, however, is easy enough to understand. Protection. Hannibal is reassuring Will and guiding him through his first steps in Hannibal’s world. 

 

_He can feel that hand as he drifts in the water, but he chooses to ignore it. His world of water is cruel._

 

Hannibal knocks twice, loudly and almost rudely, but it’s understandable. Bedelia is probably sleeping at this time of night. She should be sleeping, unless she’s waiting for Hannibal so arrive.

 

A pale light flickers on deep inside the house and within a few moments, the door creaks open and a sliver of Bedelia’s face is revealed to them. Fear is etched everywhere Will can see.

 

“Hannibal,” she whispers, her voice a little unsteady, but otherwise calm, as if she was greeting an old friend. “How may I help you?”

 

Hannibal’s eyes bore into her and Will has the sudden urge to hold him back. Bedelia looks like cornered prey at the moment.

 

“We need a place to stay for the night,” Hannibal says, his voice only slightly raspy. “And then you’ll never see us again.”

 

Bedelia scoffs as she opens the door all the way, allowing the trio to enter. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Hannibal. I will be seeing you again, rather it be on the news or in the flesh.” Her voice is soft 

 

Hannibal chuckles and lets go of Abigail’s hand, but still clutches tightly onto Will’s. “Do you have that file I gave you the other night?”

 

Bedelia nods slowly and begins walking towards the living room. Will suspects that ‘the other night’ was months ago. Or perhaps a file that Hannibal left on her doorstep to find when she returned. _Either way, the little detail makes this more real._ “I was under the impression that you would be collecting it during the day.”

 

“Change of plans,” Hannibal murmurs as he follows her into the living room, still holding onto Will. 

 

Bedelia hums in disapproval. “How rude of you.”

 

“I never promised that I would collect them during the day,” Hannibal reminds her as she turns towards them with a black folder in hand. 

 

Bedelia raises a brow at him but otherwise says nothing as she passes the folder to him. Hannibal takes it in a steady hand and keeps it at his side.

 

“May Abigail have her own room, for tonight? She’s someone who values privacy,” Hannibal asks, a smile on his lips. That smile holds so many lies, though, and both Will and Bedelia see them. It visibly scares Bedelia, but Will is unfazed by it. It’s natural at this point, and it’s not directed at him, this fake pleasantry. Hannibal isn’t lying to him.

 

Bedelia nods and looks shakily to Abigail. “This way,” she whispers as she starts walking away to another part of the house. “You know where to go, Hannibal.”

 

Hannibal bows slightly in thanks and shifts his gaze to Will. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.” 

 

Will follows Hannibal wordlessly, his hand still linked tightly to Hannibal’s. He guides them to another part of the house upstairs, where the air is cooler and the smell of dust is slightly more prominent. They arrive at a grand but simple room with a single king sized bed and a bathroom suite. 

 

“I hope you don’t mind sharing a bed for the night,” Hannibal murmurs to Will.

 

Will finds himself shaking his head. 

 

Hannibal nods and smiles softly at Will. “Good.”

 

Hannibal releases Will’s hand and places the black folder on the bed before stumbling onto the chair next to the bathroom door. He shudders slightly and groans softly as he assesses the injuries he’s received, which honestly isn’t much, compared to what he can handle, but it’s still inconvenient. _The pain echoes the sting of water in his lungs._ He slowly begins undoing the buttons of his shirt, and all too soon, it’s falling off his shoulders and being folded into a half-hearted bundle and placed at the foot of the door. The rest of his clothing is peeled off steadily, one piece at a time, and not once does he look to Will, who stands there in the middle of the room, dumbfounded. 

 

What is he supposed to do in this situation?

 

Once Hannibal is in only his underwear, he moves into the bathroom and begins running the bath water, the sound soothing against Will’s ears. He fiddles with some things and some others, searching for soap and towels, and all the while he doesn’t look at Will. Why won’t he look at Will? Why won’t he say something, anything, to reassure Will that he made the right decision?

 

“Will?”

 

_Of course, he’d say my name._

 

Will looks up from the floor and meets Hannibal’s soft gaze, who now sits on the edge of the bathtub. 

 

“Come here. You need to bathe.” Hannibal raises a hand and gestures for Will to come to him, and Will’s feet unthinkingly move towards him. 

 

He stumbles into the bathroom in front of Hannibal, and that same desperateness he felt in the kitchen is suffocating him again. He feels almost trapped, cornered like an animal, but Hannibal’s kind and loving gaze is throwing everything off. The world is jilted, and panic slowly rises in Will. _The sounds of water fills his ears, muffling the world, the design._

 

_What have I done? Saved myself? Saved Abigail?_

 

“Will?” Hannibal asks, his hands ghosting over Will’s shaking ones. “Will, talk to me.”

 

Will forces himself to take deep breaths, and while doing so, his suddenly finds himself in Hannibal’s embrace as he kneels on the floor in front of him. Hannibal’s arms are heavily draped over his shoulders and pressing him firmly against Hannibal’s chest, and the touch is reassuring and so familiar. Murderer or not, Will has always found comfort in the presence of Hannibal. Maybe not in the presence of the concept of Hannibal, in the shadow of the stag, but next to Hannibal’s physical form, he’s always felt safe. He once trusted Hannibal, trusted him above all others, and that feeling of trust was hard to forget. 

 

“Are we safe?” Will murmurs against Hannibal’s shoulder. 

 

Hannibal presses his cheek against Will’s temple. “Yes.”

 

Will shakes his head and gently pushes himself away from Hannibal. “Don’t lie to me.” He looks Hannibal in the eye. “Don’t you ever lie to me.”

 

Hannibal presses a hand against the side of Will’s face, cradling it. “We are safe, Will. We’ve escaped, and Abigail is with us, alive.”

 

_Convince me that I am not drowning._

 

Will nods and shudders. “She’s alive.”

 

Hannibal nods with Will. “She is alive and safe, Will.” He brushes a strand of hair from Will’s eyes. “As are you.”

 

Will finds his eyes lingering on Hannibal’s lips for just too long, so he presses his head back against Hannibal’s shoulder and he breathes deeply. Hannibal will protect him and Abigail. Staying on Hannibal’s good side will keep him safe. 

 

Hannibal begins undoing Will’s buttons, steady hands removing the evidence of murder and betrayal, and Will lets him.

 

_I am the lure._

 

Hannibal’s hands undo the buckle of Will’s belt, and Will lets him.

 

_I have seduced Hannibal Lecter._

 

Hannibal guides Will’s bare body into the warm bath water, his hands strong against Will’s sides, and Will lets him. 

 

_Now I am a part of his world, a world that is a bright, incredible playground. It’s a paper doll house, and Hannibal is playing dress up. He’s not some tiger prowling among the sheep. He’s the grown man version of Alice in Wonderland, back for round two down the rabbit hole, and this time he knows all the tricks, and he drinks, delighted, from one half of a shattered teacup. His childhood was a nightmare and he decided to embrace it and wear it as a Cheshire smile: a smile that remains the only shining thing in the darkness. Everything he touches turns technicolor. Flowers grow from human chests. Men dream of becoming dragons. Pigs lick their lips and ask him to dinner. Death is paid for in gold coins, love is an origami heart, and God is just playing with his toys._

 

_And now I am his lover in the midst of all of it._

 

“I will protect you, Will,” Hannibal murmurs as he begins washing Will’s hair. “You and Abigail. You will be safe under my care and we can finally start building that world we dreamed of together.”

 

_A world of mended teacups and morbid kisses._

 

Will looks up at the man who holds his life, in any world. “Together.” 

 

Hannibal smiles and Will’s heart is warmed by it.

 

The bathtub is insanely large and deep, far more expensive than any tub Will’s ever had the honor of sitting in, and his feet can barely touch the other end of it. An idea pops into his head, and it surprisingly doesn’t scare him. “Are you going to join me?” He murmurs. _Join me in the water?_

 

Hannibal’s hands still in Will’s hair and Will can imagine his pupils dilating ever so slightly. He begins moving his hands again after a moment, his touches tender and loving. 

 

“Would you want me to?” Hannibal asks, his voice steady.

 

Will turns his head slightly to meet Hannibal’s eyes. “I think the bath is big enough for us both.”

 

The corner of Hannibal’s lips twitch upwards and he continues to massage Will’s head. “Let me finish washing your hair. Then I might join you.”

 

Will scoffs. “I wouldn’t drown you, even if the bathtub was big enough.” _Ironic._

 

“I know,” Hannibal says without a pause. “Not since you finally find me interesting.”

 

Will smiles wryly. “Not since then.”

 

Hannibal removes his hands from Will’s hair and rinses them quickly in the water. He moves away from the bath and towards the sink, and after he grabs something - a sponge that probably costs far too much - he removes his underwear and moves back to the bathtub. Will scoots to one end of the bathtub and Hannibal dips his bloodied foot into the water and slinks into the tub like a swan dipping it’s beak into the water. The water turns pink around Hannibal, and once he is fully seated in the water, he meets Will’s steady gaze and holds it. 

 

“Come here,” Will murmurs, stretching his hand out to Hannibal. 

 

Hannibal doesn’t move at first but then reaches out with his own hand to grasp Will’s. He holds Will’s gaze as he moves closer, until their knees touch and Will could kiss him. In fact, that’s exactly his plan. 

 

_I didn’t get to kiss you in the other world, so let me kiss you in this one._

 

He closes the gap between them and kisses Hannibal, his lips firm against Hannibal’s and offering no room to escape. His sudden movements splash water out of the tub and onto the tile floor, but neither of them can find the will to care. A soft gasp escapes Hannibal, and his movements stutter as he tries to close the distance between their bodies. It fills Will with victory, knowing he is the only person who can do this to Hannibal Lecter. Alana didn’t know the monster Hannibal is. She didn’t run to this monster. This monster doesn’t love her. It loves Will, in every world. 

 

Hannibal’s right hand is planted firmly on the rim of the tub, supporting him as he explores Will, and Will’s own hands are planted firmly at the sides of Hannibal’s face. He tries to hold him steady and kiss Hannibal’s lips, but Hannibal’s lips seem to be everywhere but Will’s lips, instead kissing his chin, his nose, his cheeks, his jaw, and while it’s sweet, it’s frustrating. This is too controlled, and Hannibal still seems to have the upper hand. Is this how he kissed Alana? With the control of a devilish angel towering over her quivering body? Taking her the way Will imagined making love to her? 

 

“Will,” Hannibal murmurs against Will’s lips, whispering his name just for the sake of it.

 

_You are not making love to Alana, now, Dr Lecter. You are making love to me and only me._

 

Will kisses him harder and takes control of the kiss, slamming himself against Hannibal and demanding him to break under his hands. He wants to erase every memory of Alana’s lips from Hannibal’s mind, fill him only with thoughts of Will and his touches. Alana was a puppet and Will will not be that. He is the lure and he will make Hannibal bend over backwards for him, pledging his entire life to him. Let Hannibal forget Alana and his nights with her. Let her be safe from this monster and let Will embrace him, bearing the burden only he has the strength and insanity to bear. He represents to Hannibal every feverish dream that could come true. The dreams of love. The dreams of a family. 

 

There is finally the beginning of a peace and quiet in their lives. A dream they can make real in this world. Hands brand him with his nightmares and dreams, and he leans into every touch Hannibal offers him. This is his monster, his creature, his killer. His lover. No one else has the honor of seeing Hannibal laid bare before them, void of deceitful words and armor of a suit and tie. 

 

Hannibal leans away just enough to meet Will’s unwavering eyes, and his eyes crinkle with a smile. 

 

“Thank you,” Hannibal murmurs. _Thank you for running away with me. Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for loving me._

 

Does Will love Hannibal? Is this what this has become? Love?

 

Will kisses him again, pulling Hannibal against him and dragging soft, delicate moans out of the man. 

 

 _Love isn’t a choice,_ Will reminds himself as he presses up against Hannibal. Love isn’t some chemical that fires away in your mind. That’s lust, desire, want. He knows he desires Hannibal, the man who represents all of the sins Will never had the courage to commit, but _love?_ Does he willingly commit himself to the man who could kill him without hesitation and leave his body bleeding out on the kitchen floor? 

 

Yes. 

 

If he wants to live, if he wants to protect Abigail, Alana, and Jack, he has to love Hannibal. 

 

So love him he will. 

 

~O~

 

After the three have bathed and tended to most of their wounds, the three meet in the living room and Hannibal sends Bedelia off to bed like a father sending his children to their rooms. The fireplace is lit and the crackling of wood and flames embraces the homey atmosphere that Will can’t help but chuckling quietly at. It makes everything seem so… normal. Just a family having a late evening meeting and cuddling by the fire. 

 

Hannibal settles down towards the end of the longest couch in the room, and Abigail sits daintily on one side of him as Will flips down in the other side. Will’s thigh is pressing up against Hannibal’s and his eyes keep wandering to his lips. Those damn lips he has now tasted and touched and made gentle love to. 

 

Abigail catches his look and smirks at him with a knowing smile and Will instantly is appalled by what he’s doing. He’s checking out Hannibal Lecter in front of his daughter, and for god’s sake he’s embarrassed. He tries to withhold the blush, but he’s sure some of it escapes. 

 

Hannibal has the black folder in hand, and he looks through a few papers inside before giving them to Will and Abigail. 

 

“Your new names,” Hannibal says as he hands Will and Abigail their papers. The papers are copies of passports, birth certificates, and other forms of identification. Hannibal then hands them each a small purse with passports and ID cards. “Elio and Mischa Gates.”

 

Will looks up and watches Hannibal closely. _Mischa?_ His eyes ask. 

 

 _Yes, Mischa,_ Hannibal’s gaze responds, and Will knows that he’ll have to interrogate Hannibal more about that later, even if he already knows the majority of it. Mischa was his charge, his responsibility, and now Abigail is that. Abigail is his daughter now. 

 

“Abigail,” Hannibal says, turning to her ever so slightly. “You will be Will’s biological daughter, and your mother died in childbirth, so you never knew her beyond Will’s vague stories.”

 

Abigail nods obediently and looks to Hannibal with her wide blue eyes, focusing on his every word.

 

“Will,” Hannibal’s eyes bore into Will with a most delicate fondness. “As Abigail’s single father, you’ve managed fairly well in life, usually teaching psychology or biology at university. A few years ago, five to be exact, we met at an art museum, and we began seeing each other shortly afterward.”

 

Abigail’s eyes widen and a small smirk spreads on her lips as she looks at Will in victory. 

 

Hannibal notices her reaction and smiles fondly at her. “You introduced me to Abigail and I soon became a close friend of the family. A year and a half later, I proposed and we got married in Virginia, Mischa’s birthplace.”

 

Abigail giggles and smiles widely at Will’s small blush. “You blushing?”

 

Will stares at her, mildly offended and shocked. “What? No.” He angrily rubs at his beard and Abigail’s smile only brightens. 

 

Hannibal gives him another loving smile and while Will feels the blush retreating, something inside him warms even more. It’s all so domestic. In an attempt to change the subject, Will asks, “What’s your new name?”

 

“Rafael Angelo,” Hannibal answers. “I was an art professor in Paris, and I met you two when I took up a temporary job in Washington. Of course, I was smitten with Elio, so I had to peruse him.”

 

Will curses in his mind as the blush returns. They haven’t properly talked about… the kiss, but both of them know the shift in their relationship. For god’s sake, they made out in the bathtub. They’d be fools not to acknowledge the changes. There’s something more to it, now. Something deeper, more desperate. Something that sets Will aflame every time Hannibal touches him, but it’s all just gone unspoken, and now… Hannibal is married to him. Or, rather, Rafael is married to Elio. 

 

“So, after a couple years in marriage, we decided to move to Italy to expand Mischa’s experience and to accept a job offer in Florence,” Hannibal says, smiling.

 

 _He really does have such a soft and beautiful smile,_ Will finds himself thinking. _It won’t be hard, learning to love him. A part of me already does._

 

Hannibal explains some other details about their flight and travels to Florence, assuring that everything has been covered. _A thousand little details Will finds the need to list but doesn’t have the strength for._ “We’ll stay the night here, and then we leave first thing in the morning.”

 

“Shouldn’t we leave sooner?” Will asks. “Jack will know you’ll try to run away.” 

 

Hannibal smirks. “He won't catch us.” 

 

Will laughs bitterly, thinking back to the ever growing pool of blood. Will the ambulances have taken them to a hospital by now? Will the media be beginning to sniff out this tragedy and make their damn assumptions about the bodies Hannibal left behind? Will they survive in this world?  “And what if he does?” He asks anyways.

 

Hannibal sees the glimpse of fear and doubt in Abigail’s eyes as she watches Will, and he places a reassuring hand on Abigail’s shaking ones. “No one will catch us,” Hannibal whispers to them both, his eyes kind. “We’re safe.” _In this world._

 

“But still,” Will whispers. “Do you have a plan if they do find us?”

 

_How far will you go to protect us? Protect this world?_

 

Hannibal’s smile falters and then slowly disappears altogether. “In the event we are discovered,” he begins slowly. “I will put all of the blame on myself and leave you two blameless.”

 

“How?” Will asks.

 

_How far will you go to protect this?_

 

Abigail’s hand tightens around Hannibal’s and she looks to him in sudden understanding.

 

“I will almost fatally injure you both, and then leave you to die,” he whispers, kissing the top of Abigail’s head. “And then you’ll never see me again.” The last words are a hushed whisper, barely reaching Will’s ears.

 

Abigail throws her arms around Hannibal and hugs him tightly, and Hannibal hugs her back, placing his cheek on the top of her head. 

 

“You will be blameless,” Hannibal murmurs and catches Will’s gaze. 

 

_Blameless._

 

After a few moments, Abigail releases Hannibal and leans back, smiling sadly at him with her big blue eyes boring into Will. 

 

“Thank you,” she whispers. 

 

Hannibal nods and kisses her forehead. “I will do anything and everything for the two of you.”

 

Will wants do something, to embrace Hannibal or rest his head on his shoulder, but he can’t find the energy to. Hannibal is turned towards Abigail and he’s not just going to randomly press himself up against Hannibal. Hannibal knows the understanding Will has. There is an unspoken and quiet vow between them, finalized with Abigail’s life. 

 

“Now,” Hannibal murmurs to Abigail. “I need to cut your hair. Nothing much, hopefully just to your chin, but it will reduce the chances of anyone recognizing you.”

 

Abigail leans back and nods.

 

“Follow me.” Hannibal stands and walks towards the kitchen, his socks padding quietly against the tile floor. Abigail follows obediently and sits on a stool as Hannibal ties a wrap around her and grabs the scissors. A horrible image of Hannibal suddenly stabbing into Abigail’s throat seizes Will, but he shoves the thought away and walks towards them. Hannibal won’t hurt Abigail. Not like this, not without reason.

 

But he could, if he wanted to, and one day he might. It could just be a matter of time before Hannibal reopens her throat and slams that curved blade into Will’s stomach. 

 

_Only a matter of time before he wakes up to a world where she is long gone._

 

He shudders and wraps his arms around himself. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to watch Abigail die. He will seduce Hannibal, no, he _has_ seduced Hannibal, and as long as he stays on Hannibal’s good side, everything will be okay. Hannibal will protect them. They will be safe. 

 

_Please stay safe._

 

~O~

 

Abigail goes to sleep in her private suite, and Will and Hannibal prepare for sleep in their own bedroom. After bathing and finalizing the plan, exhaustion has finally settled into Will’s bones and the last drops of adrenaline leave him. He just wants to rest and prepare for the long journey ahead.

 

He wears only underwear and a t-shirt as he climbs into bed, and he half-heartedly scoffs at the full pajama set Hannibal dons.

 

“What?” Hannibal murmurs. 

 

Will shakes his head. “I just realized that I’ve never seen you in your pajamas before. I have to say, I expected a robe along with those whole outfit.”

 

Hannibal smirks as he gets into bed besides Will, the mattress dipping under his weight. “I’m surprised that you still wear the exact same outfit as you did that morning I first brought you breakfast, but at the same time I’m not.” 

 

Will laughs softly and settles into the bed, groaning as the pillows and mattress embrace his sore muscles. “You drove how many miles to bring me a protein scramble?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Hannibal murmurs, turning on his side to face Will. “I never bothered counting.”

 

Will rolls his eyes. “That sounds like the beginning of a pickup line. And I know you’re above those.”

 

Hannibal nods. “Of course. I would never lower myself to the levels of such… puns.”

 

Will raises a brow at him. “Like you don’t make puns.”

 

Hannibal looks to him blankly, but Will can see the truth in his eyes and in every damn dinner he’s ever had with Hannibal. 

 

“You make puns all of the time and they’re not even funny,” Will says. _In every reality he has to be smugly self congratulatory._

 

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Hannibal says calmly. _And in every reality he denies it._

 

Will smirks. “Sure. Talkative lambs and ethical butchers. Not puns”

 

“Those are not puns,” Hannibal states as he shifts to lay flat on his stomach, draping an arm over his stomach. His position seems to say, “end of discussion.” 

 

“Sure,” Will says, scooting closer to Hannibal. “I think Bedelia would call them ‘self congratulatory statements.’” She has called them that. 

 

Hannibal turns his head to Will and sighs. He reaches an arm out to Will and grazes Will’s cheek with the back of his hand. His expression is gentle and Will smirks, knowing that Hannibal has surrendered. “We sound so domestic like this.”

 

Will coughs out a laugh. He just doesn’t want to talk about the puns, doesn't he? “Practically a married couple, are we?” 

 

Hannibal’s gaze softens and his lips turn down into a little frown. “I should have asked if you were comfortable with the arrangements. I assumed-”

 

“It’s fine,” Will says too quickly. “You had every right to assume.” _You planned out every little detail of this, including how my feelings towards you would change. Or at least, you hoped._

 

Hannibal scoots closer to Will and props himself up on one elbow so he leans slightly over Will. “I had every right to _suspect_ , not assume.”

 

“Suspect what, Dr Lecter?” Will whispers, clicking his tongue on Hannibal’s name, tilting his chin up and keeping his eyes focused on Hannibal’s lips and eyes. The atmosphere quickly changes and Hannibal’s pupils dilate ever so slightly. 

 

_I am the lure._

 

Hannibal leans down and his breath washes over Will’s lips. “That what I felt for you was equally returned.”

 

How long has Hannibal desired Will like this? Surely not before Will was put into that damned mental institute, when the world was convinced that he was the Ripper. He was merely a puppet that Hannibal wound up and threw into the fire. 

 

Maybe it started when Will finally saw Hannibal, saw him for the murderer and monster he is. When he stared into Hannibal’s eyes and took a bite of the meat on his plate, unflinching? When he ran back to Hannibal and demanded his full attention? When he became the lure? 

 

Will holds his gaze and flicks his eyes down to Hannibal’s lips, remembering his own moments of desire for Hannibal. “And what do you feel for me?”

 

“Everything,” Hannibal murmurs, brushing his lips over Will’s. “I finally felt something other than contempt or boredom. It started with an unhealthy curiosity, and then morphed into something more profound and… almost acceptable.”

 

Will closes his eyes and presses his mouth softly against Hannibal’s lips before whispering, “Desire.”

 

“I saw myself in you. I saw everything I wanted in you.”

 

Will tilts his head to the side ever so slightly, and he watches Hannibal’s eyes closely. Eyes that hold his steady gaze, unflinching and kind. 

 

He bends down and kisses Will softly, merely acquainting his lips with Will’s. 

 

“Like Patroclus and Achilles,” Hannibal murmurs in between the kisses. 

 

“Took divine intervention to bring them down,” Will echoes. 

 

“Yes,” Hannibal murmurs before cradling Will’s face and kissing him deeply, dragging Will’s spine into a seductive curve and effectively leaving Will breathless. “And it will take more than heaven to take you away from me.”

 

 _Good._ Will surges up and shoves Hannibal down onto the mattress, kissing him almost harshly, their teeth clashing and tongues invading. _Make me yours._ He kisses Hannibal with a realism that he has learnt to associate with Hannibal’s presence. _Only I can know you like this._

 

Hannibal seems delighted by the fire Will kisses him with, and he responds equally, nipping curiously at Will’s bottom lip, extracting delicate and soft moans.

 

 _This used to be a friendship,_ Will thinks as Hannibal’s body shudders against his kisses. _The first proper friendship I thought I had._ _Hannibal was someone I ran to when I was scared or lonely. Someone who could handle my almost insane empathy and general horribleness, or so I thought._

 

God, he loved Hannibal. 

 

He loved the stupid little smile he had when people liked his cooking. He loved the obsessive need he had to be fashionable and polite. He loved the way Hannibal was always so prim and proper but always a bit like a shy puppy when he was in an area outside of his comfort zone. He loved the way Hannibal offered protection and companionship when he was breaking apart at the seams. He loved the way Hannibal would lean forward during their conversations, looking like he never wanted Will to stop talking. He loved Hannibal, in some philia manner. 

 

But then Hannibal became the Ripper and suddenly everything came crashing down. 

 

Everything was a _lie._ He felt betrayed beyond words because the one person he thought he could trust above all others, that one person threw him in prison and blamed it on _curiosity. Wind him up and watch him go._ And the fucked up part? Will understood that curiosity. Will could see himself in Hannibal and he understood why he framed Will and fucked up his life. What would happen to the little empath when he went too far and was told he was the monster he was mimicking? Would he become himself or the monster? 

 

_Or would I become the monster that molded me into this?_

 

When Will stood behind bars and looked into the eyes of Hannibal Lecter, there was an absolute clarity about what the other was. The truth finally laid bare between them, if not between them and the rest of the world. It didn’t matter how cruel and horrible that truth was, it was the truth nonetheless. 

 

Hannibal Lecter was a monster and Will Graham understood him. The only little detail that Will refused to admit was that he also loved him. 

 

It was almost easy, seducing Hannibal. After he learned to forgive Hannibal, he could imagine himself standing beside Hannibal over the bodies, _easily._ He could imagine those lips whispering words of adoration in his ears as he carved his knife into a body. Those lips tainted with blood as he kissed them. 

 

For how long has Will wanted to do this? Kiss Hannibal senseless and break the man apart under his hands? Once upon a time, this was a desire for murder, a seething _hatred_ that drove Will. Now, that desire to slit Hannibal’s throat has become something sexual, romantic, even. He wants to watch Hannibal break apart at the seams with moans escaping his lips and lust pounding through his blood. He wants to stand above Hannibal and make him _beg_ for release. He wants to kiss Hannibal softly in the morning, being the only witness to his bedhead and horrible morning breath. He wants to lean in whenever he wants and just kiss him, no questions asked.

 

_And in this world, he could have it all._

 

It’s so easy, too easy, arching into Hannibal’s touch and kissing his soft, warm, gentle lips. He can feel Hannibal’s joy radiating off him when he kisses him harder and moans softly, almost silently, against his touches. He can feel that joy reflected in himself, and it’s damningly euphoric.

 

Hannibal tries to soften the kiss, to calm the rage boiling in Will’s kisses. But Will doesn’t let Hannibal soften anything, he needs this fire, this rage. He needs to brutally prove to himself that he made the right decision. 

 

Hannibal lets him stay in control, baring his neck in submission, in such an animalistic way, and Will groans at the sight. Hannibal Lecter, pliable and submissive under his hands and lips. 

 

“I can’t wait to show you Italy,” Hannibal whispers as Will kisses his jaw and down his throat. “The Norman Palace in Palermo. Florence. The Arno. Rome. Paris.”

 

Will pauses to kiss Hannibal’s lips again. 

 

“I can’t wait to live in this world with you,” Hannibal murmurs lovingly. “The world I have prepared for us and have spent years dreaming off. We can have a family and live free of the FBI and of Freddie Lounds and Jack Crawford and Mason Verger and all of these horrible things.”

 

Hannibal kisses him again. “We can be free.”

 

Their hands are not idle as they kiss, gently exploring each other’s bodies. Hannibal’s right hand is caressing Will’s jaw, his beard scratching his fingers. His left hand is pressed against Will’s collarbone, slowly tracing the bones there and outlining a path down his sternum and seemingly memorizing every bump and curve of Will’s ribs and chest. Will’s own hands are clutching Hannibal’s head, tilting it so Will can properly kiss him, and he moves to straddle Hannibal so he can more easily access Hannibal’s lips. Everywhere they seem to touch each other is on fire, and the adrenaline that supposedly left Will’s body has now returned, singing loudly in his blood as he kisses Hannibal. 

 

Hannibal is so warm, both mentally and physically at the moment. Will used to have such a cold concept of Hannibal’s mind, but the man laying underneath him seems to be everything but that. His movements are sweet and gentle, and so damn _loving._ His body is a furnace, burning Will with every touch. 

 

_Is this the real Hannibal? Are these touches and embraces real? Both in this world and the one where he drowns?_

 

“Are you lying to me?” Will whispers against Hannibal’s lips. “You usually aren’t this passive.” _You’re never this passive. What are you plotting?_

 

Will’s blood suddenly runs cold, realizing that this could all be a trick, a clever plan to draw Will in. This… submission could all be a lie, and Will was falling for it again. God, he could be playing right into Hannibal’s hands, _willingly._

 

Hannibal’s expression speaks confusion, but his eyes speak fear. Why fear? 

 

“I will never lie to you, Will,” Hannibal murmurs. “Not again.”

 

“Is this the usual facade you put on for your lovers?” Will demands softly, his gut twisting at the thought of being just another in a string of lovers. “Is this the face you wore for Alana?” His last words are quieter than the rest, but he practically spits them in Hannibal’s face. To think that he was special, that this was different, so much deeper than what Hannibal did to Alana, god he’s a fool. This could be a lie, a lie he so desperately wants to believe. 

 

Hannibal’s eyes turn cold. 

 

_Don’t you dare lie to me._

 

“This is real, Will,” Hannibal says, cradling the side of Will’s face. _Real at least in one reality. In this one._ “And I never cared for Alana. Physically, she was very attractive, but it was a tactic to survive.” He thumbs at the corner of Will’s eye. “Like I said, my compassion for you is inconvenient. I wouldn’t do all of this if I didn’t care for you.”

 

Will scoffs. “You threw me in jail out of _boredom_.”

 

“This isn’t a prison,” Hannibal whispers. “This is my life. I let you know me. _See_ me. I gave you a rare gift.” He leans up and brushes his lips against Will’s lips, holding eye contact with Will. “Don’t throw it away.” There’s pain in his eyes as he murmurs the last words, as if he’s silently begging Will, _“don’t leave me.”_

 

“I just need to know if this is real,” Will whispers, suddenly realizing that he’s shaking against Hannibal. “I can’t… I can’t survive if this was all another game. I can’t handle any more betrayal.”

 

_Keep me in this reality._

 

Hannibal surges up and holds Will in a bruising embrace. “I will never lie to you, Will,” he whispers harshly against Will’s ear. “This is real. What I feel for you is real. Abigail is real. This world is real.”

 

Why are there tears in Will’s eyes? 

 

Will shudders against Hannibal and holds him tightly. _I am the lure. I have seduced Hannibal Lecter._

 

_I have to love Hannibal Lecter. And it’s too damn easy to do so._

 

Hannibal leans back enough to kiss Will again, his kisses harder this time, slamming reality into Will’s mind. 

 

 _Don’t be scared of me,_ Hannibal seems to whisper in between the kisses. _I will protect you._

 

Will kisses him back, letting everything go and giving it all to Hannibal. _I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of falling in love with a version of you that isn’t real, or, falling in love with the dark side of you._

 

The wrong thing being the right thing to do was too ugly a thought, but now his morals have changed, and he has to live by Hannibal’s rules. Now he can embrace the darkness, and Hannibal will guide him through it.

 

The kisses die down after a few more minutes, and Will settles into Hannibal’s arms, quickly dozing off in the warmth. He falls asleep with Hannibal’s kiss on his head and Hannibal’s arms around him. 

 

_I have seduced Hannibal Lecter._

 

~O~

 

_Florence, a month later._

 

The sun is streaming into the apartment, turning the furniture a bright gold. Abigail is running about the place, trying to find something, and Will and Hannibal stand in their bedroom, fixing Will’s disastrous tie. Will thumbs at a program for the Italian opera / concert they’re about to attend at the Santa Monaca Church, and he smirks a bit at the list of music being performed. 

 

“Clair de Lune?” Will asks. “Isn’t that something everyone listens to?” 

 

Hannibal hums in agreement as he straightens Will’s tie. “But there is a reason why everyone listens to it, my dear. It has a certain gentleness and quiet power that few pianists can properly portray.”

 

“I’m sure,” Will murmurs. “Do you know the performer? Annabelle… DuBois?”

 

“I have heard of her, in France,” Hannibal says. “But I’ve never listened to her perform. And I refuse to listen to anything online, it’s not the same.”

 

Will smiles. “Of course. The atmosphere is different.”

 

Hannibal raises a brow. “The atmosphere is nonexistent when you listen to the horrible cameras attempting to capture a performer's music. The depth of their emotion is lost.”

 

“And do you think that this _DuBois_ will capture the emotion of Clair de Lune?” Will asks. 

 

“I certainly hope so, she shouldn’t be performing if she can’t,” Hannibal mutters, releasing Will’s tie with a sigh. 

 

Will narrows his eyes at Hannibal. “Whose sin would it be, though, if she performs poorly? DuBois or the guy who’s organizing all of this?”

 

Hannibal opens his mouth to respond, but Abigail effectively interrupts.

 

“Dad?” Abigail calls from the living room, panic lacing her voice.

 

“Yeah?” Will replies loudly. 

 

Abigail bursts into the room with a small look of panic on her face. “I can’t find my purse,” she gasps.

 

“Have you checked the closet next to the entrance?” Will asks.

 

Abigail nods. “I’ve looked _everywhere_ but I can’t find it! I had it ten minutes ago!”

 

Hannibal gives Will’s tie one last unforgiving glance and turns to Abigail. “Did you leave it in the bathroom?”

 

Abigail opens her mouth to say no, but then her eyes widen and she mutters a curse as she runs out of the room. A few moments later she yells, “Thank you, Rafi!” 

 

Hannibal smiles and Will rolls his eyes. 

 

“It’s still so strange to call you that,” Will murmurs. “That’s not your name.”

 

Hannibal shrugs and kisses Will lightly on the lips. “It’s who I am, here.”

 

Will shakes your head. “You’re Hannibal, here. The real Hannibal.”

 

Hannibal smiles and Will kisses him again, always finding himself excuses to kiss Hannibal. 

 

“The rest of the world can’t know that, Will dear,” Hannibal whispers. “Only you and Abigail can.” 

 

Will nods. “I know.”

 

As they enter the living room, looking almost perfectly dressed, Abigail yells out a victorious ‘ha!’ from where Will assumes to be the bathroom, and she runs back into the living room with a smirk on her face and her purse in hand. “Found it!” 

 

Will smiles at her. 

 

“Excellent,” Hannibal says, clapping his hands together. “Shall we, then?”

 

Will nods, grabbing his coat off of the back of the couch and shrugging it on. “Ready.”

 

Hannibal smiles widely and offers Abigail his arm, which she happily takes, a proud smirk on her face. Will rolls his eyes at the pair and follows them out, locking the door quietly behind them. They exit the building quietly talking about the differences between a harpsichord and a piano, and they smile in greeting at their neighbors and tourists strolling about the street. The sunlight nearly blinds Will as he steps out, and he has to stop for a moment and cover his eyes. 

 

Hannibal, as perfect as he is, doesn’t stop moving, and he starts walking down the street towards the theatre, Abigail happily chatting at his side. Will pauses, when he regains his sight, to look at them walking down the street, smiling and happy as they go to an Italian opera. The sunlight makes Abigail’s eyes almost glow green, and Will feels something twist in chest.

 

_This is beautiful._

 

“Elio!” Hannibal calls, realizing that Will has frozen, staring at their figures.

 

“Sorry,” Will mutters, rushing forward to catch them. “Got lost in thought.”

 

Abigail raises a brow at him. “Thought? Or were you admiring Rafi’s hair in the sunlight?”

 

 _It was your eyes in the sunlight,_ Will thinks, almost bitterly. “Not everything in my mind is about Rafi, Mischa.”

 

She smirks and starts walking again. “Whatever you say, Dad.”

 

Will is never going to get tired of her calling him Dad.

 

Originally, they planned to take a taxi to the Santa Monaca, but after realizing how close it is, Hannibal insisted on the scenic stroll to the church. They have to cross the Arno to get there, and Hannibal always loves doing that. When they’re halfway across the bridge, Abigail releases Hannibal’s hand to grab something from her purse - her phone to take pictures with Hannibal and Will - and Hannibal’s hand easily slips into Will’s. He smiles softly at Will, his smile more of a smirk than anything else, and they continue their walk in comfortable silence, occasionally responding to one of Abigail’s remarks about opera or the piano or Italian. 

 

_Little details in my design._

 

They arrive at the cozy little church five minutes before the start of the performance - Hannibal is clearly satisfied with their timing - and they greet the other members of the audience with kind smiles as they walk in. They haven’t been in Florence long enough to know any of the other people in the church - most of them are tourists, anyways - and they each grab a program before taking their seats. Will seats between Hannibal and Abigail, and he momentarily wonders if he should switch with one of them, because Abigail will appreciate Hannibal’s small comments much more than he will. 

 

Abigail opens the program and reads it attentively, quietly murmuring the Italian words, and Will leans over her shoulder to read it as well. She gives him a little glare, knowing that he has his own program, but she allows him to read it with her. 

 

 

  * __Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus__



 

_Arias and Duets, from 'The Mariage of Figaro', K. 492_

 

  * __Puccini, Giacomo__



 

_Tosca > Arias from "Tosca" _

 

  * __Puccini, Giacomo__



 

_La Bohème > Arias from: "La Bohème" _

 

  * __Rossini, Gioachino__



 

_The Barber of Seville (Rossini) > Arias from 'Il barbiere di Siviglia' _

 

  * __Puccini, Giacomo__



 

_Madame Butterfly > Arias from Madame Butterfly _

 

  * __Verdi, Giuseppe__



 

_La Traviata > Arias from La Traviata _

 

  * __Debussy, Claude__



 

_Clair de Lune_

 

“Looks like Ms DuBois is last,” Hannibal murmurs to Will. 

 

_Little details._

 

Will hums. “Let’s hope she satisfies your musical tastes.”

 

Hannibal smirks, his eyes lingering on Will’s lips.

 

“Don’t be gross in public, Dad,” Abigail mutters, poking at Will’s side.

 

He scoffs at her and she rolls her eyes. “I’m not being gross.”

 

“You’re giving Rafi bedroom eyes and I’m about to vomit,” she mutters lowly, and Hannibal doesn’t hear her. Will is eternally grateful Hannibal doesn’t hear, and Abigail should be as well, because he’ll only ramp up the pubic affection in response. The man is hopeless, at times. 

 

“Don’t talk about my bedroom life,” Will shoots back. “And he’s the one giving me looks, not the other way around.”

 

She shrugs. “You’re returning them, though.”

 

Will has to fight the urge to roll his eyes like a teenager. He settles for a sigh. “Don’t talk about my bedroom life.”

 

“Or lack thereof,” Abigail mutters mostly to herself.

 

“Mischa!” Will hisses. “You know what, end of discussion.”

 

She giggles and doesn’t even try to hide her wide grin. “You’re blushing.”

 

Will gives her a clear ‘I’m ignoring you’ look and turns towards Hannibal. “So, anything interesting to say?”

 

Hannibal gives Will and inquisitive look. “Why? Is Mischa bullying you again?”

 

Will huffs out a disbelieving sigh. “Both of you are awful.”

 

“What have I done?” Hannibal asks, mildly offended. “I merely asked if she’s bullying you.”

 

“You made me sound pathetic,” Will mutters, crossing his arms and pouting like a child.

 

Hannibal does his equivalent of an eyeroll, a sigh and a single eyebrow raised. “You are not a child.”

 

Will gives him a burning gaze - burning with playful and thinly covered sexual hints - and shrugs. “I know.”

 

Hannibal is about to say something in response, something that would probably make Abigail laugh and tease Will some more, but a man is stepping forward and introducing the music, the Italian booming clearly across the room. 

 

Hannibal instantly sits up straight and gives the ‘stage’ his full attention, and Will chuckles at the way he looks like an excited child on Christmas. Abigail smiles excitedly at Will, and she grins widely at Hannibal who turns to meet her gaze for a moment. 

 

The music flows from the voices of the singers and the piano, and Will finds himself honestly enjoying it. The music seems to flow into his bones, and he feels relaxed and content. The singers are _impressive_ , and Will finds himself mouthing ‘wow’ every once in a while when they hit a particularly high note, their voices clearly ringing through the small church, proudly displaying their skills. Hannibal looks like he’s about to cry - in his own subtle way - and Will gives his hand a squeeze, and Hannibal gives him a small smile. 

 

The last song comes round all too soon, and soon enough a golden haired women steps forward. She had performed in a duet, previously, but Will finally has a name to her face. Annabelle DuBois. She’s got pale golden hair and thin lips, and her eyes are slightly sunken into her skull, giving her a strange look. She doesn’t look deathly, though, quite the opposite, she looks full of life and her smile is kind. His eyes spot small believes on her cheeks and ears, and he commits them to memory. 

 

_Little details._

 

“She’s so pretty,” Abigail murmurs besides Will. 

 

Will finds himself nodding in agreement, and he casts a glance over to Hannibal to see his reaction. Hannibal’s eyes are glued to her, his eyes unblinking and his lips parted ever so slightly. Will narrows his eyes in concern and gives Hannibal’s hand another squeeze. 

 

“Rafi?” Will murmurs, leaning towards Hannibal. “You okay?”

 

Hannibal seems to snap out of a trance, and he turns to Will with a small smile. “Of course. She just reminded me of someone, that’s all.”

 

Will nods but gives Hannibal _the look,_ demanding that Hannibal explain later. Hannibal’s eyes surrender and he nods gently. _Good._

 

DuBois takes her seat at the piano and positions her hands over the piano, and she closes her eyes and breathes deeply. The breath is released and her hands seem to sink into the piano, along with the rest of her body, and she begins playing. 

 

It starts as a whisper: a murmur to the crowd, imparting some sweet secret to the crowd. The music is soft, oh so soft, but every note is clear. It reminds Will of bells, crystal notes floating through the air. The tune seems so sweet, like a mother’s lullaby, and Will closes his eyes for a moment, relishing in the music. It’s truly beautiful. He allows himself to delve into her mind, into the piece of her soul DuBois has revealed to the crowd, and he smiles slightly. Everything is in control, in her music. It is expressive and unbound by metre and measure, rising and falling as she pleases, but it does not stutter. Every sound is meant to be, every note is clear and determined, and the piano serves her as she coaxes sweet music from it’s strings. It reminds him of Hannibal, expressive and freewilled, but controlled. Everything is within her grasp. 

 

The music builds as she plays, builds and builds and builds until it reaches some glorious climax - a roaring of sounds and _soul_ \- but then it falls. It falls slowly, softly, as if time was momentarily frozen and someone was carefully observing every frame of it. The music falls deeper and quicker, and _god,_ Will can hear her soul in the music, a sorrowful song to some lost soul. 

 

He turns his head to Hannibal, and he’s a bit shocked by what he sees. 

 

Hannibal is crying, stoically so, but crying nonetheless. A single tear falls down his cheek and he makes no move to wipe it away. _The piano has the texture of a memory. Of a dream. An echo - no matter how hopeless - of reality._

 

Will wants to whisper a comforting phrase, but he can’t bear to tear Hannibal away from the music. He just silently prays that Hannibal is crying because of the music’s beauty rather than because it has failed his expectations. He would rather keep Annabelle DuBois off his dinner table. 

 

She finishes the song with a clear denouement, and rises from the piano as the crowds rises with her, their hands coming together in glorious applause.

 

Hopefully she has met Hannibal’s expectations. 

 

There are some drinks being served after the performances, but everyone runs to the front of the church to congratulate the performers, ignoring the wine. A few linger back, picking from the small selection of wine, and the Angelos are included in that group. 

 

“Shouldn’t we go congratulate them?” Abigail asks Hannibal, watching DuBois shake hands with an elderly Italian couple. 

 

Hannibal takes a sip of his wine. “Let them receive their praises from the masses, and then we can congratulate them once things have settled down. I want to have a proper conversation with them, not just run there and gush quickly about their music.”

 

Abigail sighs but nods. “I really want to talk to the last lady.”

 

“Annabelle DuBois,” Will murmurs. “Her music was lovely.”

 

Hannibal chuckles. “It was far more than lovely, Elio dear. I could hear her soul in the music, and I felt a bit of my soul sing with her.”

 

Will smiles, releasing a small sigh he didn’t realize he was holding. “I’m glad she has met your expectations.”

 

“She has surpassed them, beautifully so,” Hannibal says, watching Will carefully before turning his gaze to Abigail. “This has finalized my decision, however.”

 

“Oh?” Will asks, turning to Abigail who has a fearful look on her face.

 

“We’re purchasing a piano, not a harpsichord,” Hannibal declares, and Abigail grins widely and hugs Hannibal quickly, careful not to spill his wine.

 

“Thank you thank you!” She whispers happily, and Hannibal kisses the top of her head. 

 

“Of course,” he says. “I would one day love to hear your soul in your music.” _Hear your soul as we see it every day._

 

Abigail smiles. “One day. Probably a day quite far off from now.”

 

Hannibal scoffs but looks to her fondly. “Nonsense. You’ll learn quickly, and you’ll have an excellent teacher to guide you.”

 

“Narcissist,” Will mutters. 

 

Hannibal can only smile playfully. 

 

~O~

 

Annabelle wanders through the crowd, a glass of red wine in her hand. Her head pivots about, looking for a head of gold, but her eyes find nothing. _Dammit, where did he go?_

 

She here’s a clear voice call, “Signora DuBois!” so she quickly turns, but while doing so, she slams into someone and she can feel a bit of wine slosh out of her cup. 

 

_Fuck._

 

“Oh!” A woman exclaims, and Annabelle instantly panics. 

 

“I am so sorry!” She says urgently, frantically searching for the stain of wine she is sure is on the woman.

 

Bright blue eyes meet hers, and they are kind and forgiving. “No no, it’s okay!” The woman, the _girl,_ says, and she dabs gently at a dark stain on her shoulder. “I should be more careful about where I’m going.”

 

 _She speaks English,_ Annabelle notes. “Nonsense. I was the one who ran into you. I apologize profusely.”

 

The girl laughs shortly. “It’s okay. Really. You can barely see the stain, and it’s not big.”

 

Annabelle cringes at the stain her careful eyes can easily pick out. “I still stained your lovely dress with red wine,” she says, dabbing the stain with her handkerchief in hand. 

 

The girl smiles. “Accidents happen.” Her smile pulls at a memory in Annabelle’s mind, and she suddenly recognizes the girl. 

 

“Usually they aren’t this expensive,” Annabelle murmurs. _Abigail Hobbs._

 

Abigail shrugs. “Nothing we can do about it now. I’m Mischa,” she says, sticking her hand out. So American. 

 

“Annabelle,” she says, shaking _Mischa’s_ hand. “Annabelle DuBois.”

 

“Your music was lovely,” Mischa says, smiling brightly, her eyes crinkling in an endearing manner and framing her blue eyes lovingly. “I think my stepdad was crying during your song.”

 

Annabelle flushes pink. “I hope they were tears of joy and not disappointment.”

 

Mischa laughs. “Don’t worry. I think he’s imprinted on your music, he’ll be gushing about it for _weeks._ ”

 

Annabelle smiles. “While I feel sorry for you, I cannot lie about the immense pride I feel.”

 

Mischa sighs. “That’s good. Take pride in your work, you deserve it.”

 

“Thank you, you’re too kind,” Annabelle murmurs. “I assume your father has not abandoned you here alone? Is he congratulating another performer?”

 

Mischa nods. “Yeah. He and Dad are talking to the big shot opera singer right now, but I’m sure my dad will come breathing down my neck soon enough, asking if any creepy guys have tried to get my number.”

 

Annabelle laughs. “So he’s the protective type?” _He and Dad?_

 

Abigail nods. “Very much so. But I’m kinda used to it, since both of my dads are like that twenty four seven.”

 

 _So Hannibal and Graham are faking a relationship?_ “Well, there is nothing wrong with wanting to protect your family.”

 

Mischa nods. “Family is all you have, in the end, and I know I’d do anything for my dads.”

 

Annabelle smiles. _I’m sure you would._ “They sound lovely.”

 

Abigail smiles proudly. “They are.”

 

“Mischa!” Another voice says, and soon Hannibal Lecter is placing his hand on Mischa’s shoulder and smiling brightly at Annabelle.

 

_Dear God, he’s here._

 

“Looks like you beat us to the lovely Signora DuBois!” Hannibal says, extending his hand to Annabelle. “I’m Mischa’s stepfather, Rafael Angelo.”

 

Annabelle shakes his hand, noting how warm his hands are and how firm his grip is. She utters a silent _fuck_ in her mind, cursing her shaking hand. 

 

“Annabelle DuBois, but you already knew that,” she says, smiling at him. 

 

“Your music was lovely, Signora DuBois,” Hannibal says, bowing his head slightly. “It gripped my soul and demanded to be carved into my heart.”

 

Annabelle chuckles at his dramatics. “Are you a poet, Signor Angelo?”

 

Hannibal smirks proudly. “Not by profession, but I am an art professor, so I dabble here and there in poetry.”

 

“Fancy,” Annabelle murmurs. “You sound so professional compared to my street music.”

 

“Street music?” Hannibal exclaims. “That was hardly street music, Signora.”

 

Annabelle smirks. “Thank you, but I am a simple pianist trying to make my way through the world, with a small psychology degree tucked under my belt. My music, while it may have the power to touch hearts and souls, is street music. I am merely a street… _magician_ ,” Annabelle whispers. “A common but magical creature dedicated to the simpler aspects of illusion.”

 

Hannibal smiles at her words, and he makes no move to argue against them. 

 

“Mischa,” yet another voice says, and a dark haired man steps next to Mischa, his eyes worrisome. 

 

“Hello,” Annabelle says, smiling playfully at Will Graham. 

 

Will’s eyes widen and he smiles a small, shy smile at her as he extends his hand. “Ms DuBois.”

 

“I assume you are Mischa’s other father?” Annabelle says. 

 

Will chuckles and nods. “Elio. Mischa’s biological father.”

 

“Lovely to meet you, _Elio,_ ” Annabelle says. 

 

Hannibal smiles at _Elio_ fondly, while Elio seems blissfully unaware of the loving gaze as he speaks. “You’re music was breathtaking, Ms DuBois. I am not one for concerts and operas, but after this performance, I am most certainly rethinking that position.”

 

Annabelle grins. “I’m glad to hear it.”

 

“So, Mischa,” Hannibal asks. “How did you stumble across la Signora?”

 

Annabelle ducks her head. “I am afraid that was my fault, I wasn’t watching where I was going and I ran into your daughter, effectively spilling my wine on her dress.” It takes her a moment to realize that Hannibal wasn’t asking her, but she quickly removes the thought. Even if he wasn’t, she still needs to defend Abigail. Or _Mischa._

 

“It’s fine,” Mischa quickly says. 

 

Hannibal raises a brow. “Where is the stain?”

 

Mischa tries to hide it but Annabelle points it out quickly with two fingers. “There.” 

 

Hannibal inspects the stain closely and hums. “There could have been a significantly greater amount of damage done, however the stain is barely noticeable. I’m glad your will to wear dark clothes overcame my pleads for a lighter colored dress, Mischa.”

 

Mischa giggles. “See? Black is excellent.”

 

“All is forgiven, Signora,” Hannibal murmurs, bowing his head. 

 

Annabelle shakes her head. “I still owe you, or at least, Mischa something.”

 

Hannibal pouts his lips ever so slightly, thinking, and then a bright grin slides onto his face. “Join us for dinner, one evening. I assume you’re staying in Florence for a little while longer.”

 

Annabelle puts a hand to her chest. “Dinner already? I barely know you, you and your family could be a family of psychopathic murderers.”

 

Annabelle can feel Graham stare into the side of her head, aimed for her temple. 

 

“Please, I insist,” Hannibal says. “Mischa was quite taken by your music, and like you said, you owe us. I will not pass up the opportunity to dine with such a skilled pianist such as yourself.” 

 

Annabelle blushes. “Well, I certainly hope you can cook well.”

 

“The kitchen owns half his soul,” Graham mutters. “You’ll be in for a treat, trust me.”

 

_Well don’t you just sound like the grumpy husband?_

 

Mischa nods enthusiastically. “It’d be really really nice.”

 

Annabelle smiles. “Well, here’s my phone number,” she says as she pulls out a small notebook out of her purse, scribbling some numbers down before neatly ripping the page out. “And text me the time and date. I’m in Florence until further notice.”

 

Hannibal smiles widely. “I look forward to having you for dinner.”

 

 _Again,_ Annabelle softly adds. 

 

The four stand around and chat a little more about wine and music, and Annabelle begins realizing the true nature behind Graham and her brother. They aren’t faking a relationship, they’re genuinely in one, and Graham seems… happy and willing to stand beside Hannibal. This wasn’t a kidnapping done on Hannibal’s part, this was… persuasion. They eloped together, bringing their surrogate daughter with them to Florence. 

 

And Hannibal seems too happy every time he looks at Graham. His eyes crinkle and his little crooked teeth are revealed behind his lips, and Graham is so often unaware of the way Hannibal dotes on him. 

 

Annabelle smiles to herself as she watches the family leave the church, Graham and Mischa bickering quietly about god knows what. 

 

_You learned how to love again, Hannibal. I’m happy for you._

 

~O~

 

They arrive back at home after ice cream - Abigail insisted and no way in hell was Will saying no to Italian ice cream - and Abigail flops down onto the couch, groaning softly.

 

“Why did I wear high heels,” she moans. “My feet are _killing_ me.”

 

“Fashion has a price,” Hannibal murmurs, and Will scoffs. 

 

“You sold your soul for fashion,” Will says, and Abigail laughs loudly. 

 

“He probably did,” she says, taking off her shoes and sliding them neatly into the shoe rack. 

 

“Bold of you to assume that it was fashion I sold my soul for,” Hannibal says, taking off his jacket and shoes, putting them away neatly. “I would argue I sold it for my cooking.”

 

Will hums in agreement. “And your soul is kicked away in the kitchen, which is why you’re so damn possessive of it.”

 

“I have every right to possessive of my kitchen,” Hannibal says plainly. 

 

Abigail shrugs. “He does.”

 

Will raises a brow at her. “Don’t side with him again. I’m the one who is actually your father.”

 

“Which is why I rebel,” she says happy, leaning back against the couch. She groans loudly before Will can say anything, and then suddenly stands up. “I’m gonna go shower and then sleep, I’m exhausted.”

 

Hannibal nods, stepping forward and kissing the top of her head. “Goodnight, Mischa.”

 

“Goodnight, Rafi,” she murmurs, giving him a quick hug. She moves towards Will and embraces him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder. “Goodnight, Dad.” 

 

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Will murmurs against her hair, which now barely reaches her shoulders. “Sweet dreams.”

 

Abigail smiles gently and pads off to her room, humming Clair de Lune under her breath.

 

“I’m never going to get tired of hearing her call me Dad,” Will says. “It feels so natural and… satisfying. I feel proud, as if I’ve done a good job raising her.”

 

Hannibal hums in agreement and kisses Will’s left temple. “You should be proud, she is an amazing girl.”

 

Will nods and tilts his head back to he can chastely kiss Hannibal on the lips. “I’m going to take a bath. Join me?”

 

Will smirks at the way Hannibal’s eyes dilate. 

 

“Of course.” 

 

-

 

The water is soothing against their bodies, and Will closes his eyes and leans his head back, letting it fall against Hannibal’s collarbone. He’s sitting in their fancy ass tub in between Hannibal’s legs, his back pressed up against Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal’s hands are pressed up against Will’s chest, and they’re not even washing themselves, they’re just sitting there, relaxing and delighting in each other’s presence. 

 

_The water is real, and he can feel Hannibal around him._

 

“DuBois was beautiful tonight,” Will murmurs, turning his head so his lips near Hannibal’s collarbone. 

 

“She was,” Hannibal replies, his lips moving against Will’s forehead. 

 

“You said she reminded you of someone,” Will says. “Who did she remind you of?”

 

Hannibal seems to grow stiff under Will, and Will shifts in Hannibal’s embrace so he can properly look at the man. “Hannibal?”

 

Hannibal shakes his head gently and presses his forehead to Will’s. “No one of importance.”

 

Will scoffs. “I don’t believe you.”

 

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Hannibal whispers. “She’s long dead.”

 

“The dead can haunt us,” Will reminds him. “And I want to know.”

 

Hannibal sighs and kisses him chastely. “If you must know, she reminded me of my sister.”

 

“Mischa?” Will asks. “Because of how she moved or looked?”

 

“Looked,” Hannibal whispers. “Annabelle has a limp, and my sister was full of life.”

 

“Movement is more than just walking,” Will says.

 

“Yes, but everything I remember about her is how she ran through the fields and corridors. And her smile,” Hannibal whispers, smiling at some memory playing in his head. “But Annabelle was nothing more than a hopeful reflection of what I lost.”

 

Will relaxes under Hannibal’s embrace again, settling against his chest. “Thank you,” Will says. “For telling me.”

 

“Of course,” Hannibal whispers. “You deserve to know.” 

 

_Never lie to me, Hannibal. I have learnt to love you and I cannot survive being heartbroken a second time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuugghhhhhh I have read and reread and rereread this chapter so many times. It took me a while to get inside Will’s head, and I’m still not totally satisfied with how I’ve presented his thoughts. Hopefully it’s enough to satisfy you guys. 
> 
> But the gay is here and I was so happy while writing the Florence scenes, my heart is bursting. Why can’t they just be happy? Is that too much to ask?
> 
> Next chapter is honestly on its way. Slowly slowly being written. But I keep feeling uninspired and unsatisfied with how I’m writing Hannibal and Will’s relationship, so bear with me. It’s getting there. A few more scenes and then editing and then publishing.


	4. A Fallen Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy times in Florence.  
> Murder times in Florence.  
> Sexy times in Florence. 
> 
> The author has very few regrets and no self control.

_Seven weeks earlier._

“Who are you?” 

“Don’t you recognize me?”

The dark haired woman shakes her head. “I do. But you’re not the woman I recognise. You are an imposter.”

_Imposter._ Now that’s a rather accusing term. 

Procel smiles halfheartedly, sighing. She should have known Chiyoh would be hard to convince. “I’m not.”

Chiyoh shakes her head. “Mischa Lecter is dead. You are not her.”

Procel steps forward slowly and raises her hands when Chiyoh points her gun at her. “I can prove it,” she whispers, trying to dangle her identity over Chiyoh like a cat’s toy. 

Chiyoh scoffs. “I’d like to see you try.”

Procel only smiles slightly as she walks close enough to the gun. She could reach out and snatch the gun out of Chiyoh’s grasp, if she was quick enough. But Chiyoh would fire and nothing good would come out of it. She’d be labeled and enemy and she doesn’t want that. 

“May I?” She asks, grabbing the collar of her jacket and pulling the zipper down slightly. Her words can be twisted and deceitful. The scars on her body cannot. 

Chiyoh narrows her eyes, but slowly nods. “You may. If you want to deal with the cold and snow.”

Procel nods in thanks. “I think I can handle a bit of cold.” _Especially after what I’ve lived through._

She unzips her jacket, takes off her scarf and unbuckles her belt, and she places them neatly on the ground, before dragging off her shirt and placing it with the rest of her things. Her blond hair is loose around her head, and it billows out around her shoulders, protecting her from the cold, if only a little. Her jeans come off, and it’s a bit trickier than the rest, but worth it when she sees Chiyoh’s eyes narrow and her body freeze. A prosthetic leg tends to get people’s attention. 

She’s standing in front of Chiyoh, completely naked ignoring her underwear, bra and boots. 

“You think someone would fake a prosthetic leg just to fool you?” She asks.

Chiyoh doesn’t smile. “I’ve seen people do more for less,” she whispers. God knows she’s right. 

Procel watches her carefully. “You’ve seen people die in the name of pleasure,” she states. 

Chiyoh’s finger twitches against the trigger. “I saw _you_ die in the name of pleasure.”

“A part of me did,” Procel whispers. “My leg most certainly did.”

“You are not Mischa Lecter,” Chiyoh whispers, angrily so.

Procel narrows her eyes. “What makes you so sure?”

“You are _alive,_ for one. Mischa is dead. She died and Hannibal ate her.”

“How could I prove my identity?” Procel asks. “You think these scars could lie?” She turns to reveal her side, where a nasty pale line stretches across her ribs and stomach. Her thighs are covered in long, deep scars and damaged skin, ripped away from her. 

Chiyoh shakes her head. “You can’t prove to be what you are not.”

Procel sighs and chews at her bottom lip. “Hannibal hated spinach was he was a child,” she begins. “Never knew why. His nickname for me was ‘pidgeon,’ since I was so carefree.” She chuckles at a memory. “Our nanny’s name was Svajone. Monster of a woman. She’d take away my toys when I disobeyed. Hannibal always stole them from her, though, and give them back to me.  He also kept gardens to attract fireflies, and they’d eat the snails he kept there. A bit barbaric but a little bit of death never bothered a Lecter.”

Chiyoh watches her carefully, never moving and keeping her gun trained on Procel.

“He taught you how to hunt, and you showed me how to pluck birds,” Procel continues. “I favored my left foot but my right hand, and I had an infatuation with our dog’s hair. Hannibal loved thunderstorms but I hated them. At night I’d sneak into his bed, demanding bedtime stories. He told me that thunder was an angel’s shout, and they were protecting us from the enemy. He’d always allude to the fact that God was the enemy.”

Procel is shivering by now, but she takes another step towards Chiyoh, proud of the way Chiyoh has frozen. You cannot prove to be what you are not, but Procel is what she claims to be. 

“Could an imposter tell you all of that?” Mischa whispers, grasping the barrel of Chiyoh’s rifle with a steady hand. “Could I make all of that up?” 

“No,” Chiyoh whispers, her voice not betraying any emotion she feels. “No, you could not.”

Mischa smiles. “Now, do you want to inspect my scars more closely or can I put my clothes back on?”

Chiyoh lowers her gun and uncocks it. “I don’t need to. I’ve heard enough.” Her voice is steady and almost nonchalant, but Mischa knows better.

She laughs shortly, quickly pulling her clothes back on. “I should have just confessed those details from the beginning.”

“Probably,” Chiyoh says. “You could have gotten yourself sick for nothing.” Her voice is almost distant and her eyes don’t meet Mischa’s. 

Mischa chuckles as she pulls on her shirt. “Not nothing.” 

“Why are you here?” Chiyoh asks, her voice soft. “Why now, after so long?” There is a silent accusation in her tone, demanding to know why Mischa has left her here with the fireflies. 

Mischa smiles wryly. “I was looking for Hannibal. I’ve been looking, spent years of my life looking for _Il Mostro_ and the Chesapeake Ripper and the Copycat Killer and finally, Hannibal the Cannibal. And now I’ve found him, hiding away in the US, teetering on the edge of safety. He’s about to fall, and I’m going to be there when he does.”

“Why come find me, then?” Chiyoh whispers, handing Mischa her scarf. _Why find me after abandoning me for so long?_

“What? I can’t come say hi to an old friend?” She asks.

“You’re dead,” Chiyoh says quietly. “I thought you were dead. I watched you die.”

Mischa nods. “I know. But… I need your help. I’ve found Hannibal and I need to take precautions. He’s a killer, and he’s made friends with killers.”

“Hannibal doesn’t make friends,” Chiyoh whispers. “He makes allies.”

Mischa smirks. “Doesn’t matter what these people are to him. They’ll defend him until the end, and I don’t want to end up in the wrong end of their knives.”

“You want me to be your bodyguard,” Chiyoh states. 

“I don’t want to die before I can properly explain myself to Hannibal,” Mischa says. 

Chiyoh nods and begins walking towards the castle, her gun slung over her shoulder and her hands in her pockets. “What makes you think I’ll go with you?”

“You promised to protect Hannibal and I,” Mischa reminds her, walking next to her. “You have a second chance at protecting me.”

“Are you blaming me for your supposed death?” Chiyoh asks almost casually. Mischa hears the accusation laced in between the words. 

“I’m not. But you do.”

Chiyoh’s lips form a thin line and Mischa knows she’s won. 

“Don’t let me die all over again, Chiyoh.”

Chiyoh bites at her lip and walks at a faster pace, her eyes set and angry. 

~O~

_Present day_

There’s a gentle knock on the door, and Mischa springs up from the couch to open it. She peers through the peephole in the door, grinning when she sees Annabelle there, a bottle of wine in hand. 

She opens the door and smiles widely. “Hi!” 

Annabelle gives her a pleasant smile and kisses her cheeks as she enters the house. “Hello, Mischa! How are you this evening?”

Mischa shrugs. “Normal, I guess. Nothing too special, besides Dad and Rafi panicking over food.”

Annabelle ducks her head in a bit of shame. “I certainly hoped I haven’t caused too much stress concerning the dinner.” Annabelle says softly, walking into the living room with Mischa. The Angelo home is very bright, filled with yellows and reds, and it must look stunning in the daylight, not that it didn’t look stunning now. A deep brown carpet covers the center of the room, and there are paintings of the ocean around the room, along with a copy of Starry Night. 

Mischa waves the issue away nonchalantly. “They always argue over food. It’s practically tradition.”

“Over how to prepare it or where the food comes from?” She asks, wondering what type of meat she’ll be fed this evening.

Annabelle sees a glimpse of fear, or rather nervousness, flash across Mischa’s expression, but it’s gone a moment later. 

“Mostly how to prepare it. Rafi usually chooses witch butchers to shop from and stuff,” Mischa says, shrugging again. “Come on. They’re waiting in the kitchen, Rafi’s pride and joy.”

They pad into the kitchen, a wide and open space with a small island in the middle, and almost every surface is occupied with something. Pans of pasta and small dishes of sauces fill the island, and cutting boards and boiling pots of soup and god knows what cover everything else. Hannibal is skillfully cutting the vegetables, basil, Annabelle notes, and Elio stands next to him with a disbelieving expression.

Elio opens his mouth to snap at Hannibal, a playful smirk on his lips, but he snaps his mouth shut the moment he sees Annabelle.

“Annabelle,” he says, and Hannibal turns his head to meet her eyes. 

“Hello, Annabelle. How was your journey here? I know you live a quite a ways from here,” Hannibal says, a friendly smile plastered on. His voice is even, and everyone in the room knows who is in control.

Well, everyone but Elio seems to know who is in control. Perhaps he does know Hannibal’s power, but believes he can match him in wit or escape the consequences of defying Hannibal. A foolish idea, really. A suicide mission that Annabelle has thrown herself into.

“It was a bit hard to find your place, but fortunately my driver knows Florence very well,” Annabelle says, and she stares at Hannibal dead in the eye. Almost challenging him. Believing, like Elio, that she can survive Hannibal Lecter. 

“Do you want me to take your coat?” Mischa says, effectively forcing Annabelle to break eye contact. She didn’t back down. “Sorry, I should have offered earlier.”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Annabelle murmurs, shrugging out of her maroon coat and handing it to Mischa. 

She glances over to Elio and notices that he refuses to meet her eyes for anything longer than a moment. When Mischa returns, suggesting that Annabelle taste the sauces, Elio doesn't try to meet Mischa eyes when she looks to him. 

_Not fond of eye contact, are you?_

Hannibal laughs at Mischa, saying that he can’t possibly spoil the sauces before the dinner properly begins, and then he’s looking to Elio with that damningly fond expression. 

And Elio meets his gaze head on, holding it and challenging it. 

“Would you like some wine, Annabelle?” Hannibal asks, pulling out a couple wine glasses and breaking away from Elio’s stare. He gestures to the bottle of wine in her hand“If I remember, you preferred darker wines, at least at the concert.” 

Annabelle nods and blushes. “I’m sorry, I should probably hand this to you. It is a gift, afterall.”

Hannibal takes the bottle with a smile. 

“I do prefer darker wines, red wine, but I’m not as much as a wine connoisseur as the average Italian is. So forgive me if this wine doesn’t meet the standards I know you have.”

Hannibal smiles and reads out the label of the bottle. “This is perfect, Annabelle. And, since you bought this bottle, I know very well that you will enjoy it. No need for me to guess which wines you would enjoy.”

“I’m sure your guesses would be very accurate,” Annabelle says. “You are very attentive to the details, Signor Angelo.”

“The Devil is in the details,” Hannibal says, turning back to the stove. 

“Indeed he is,” Annabelle murmurs. “The Devil’s design is in the details, the small, seemingly inconsequential details that destroy an entire faith.”

“And drag you into another,” Elio says, glancing at Annabelle’s eyes before flickering down to her lips and jaw. 

“The faith of the devil?” Annabelle asks. 

“The faith of the devil,” Elio confirms. 

Mischa watches them with her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide as she takes in their words. If she had been any other child, Annabelle would be worried about whether or not she understood the conversation. But Mischa is a daughter of a monster; she knows the details the devil gives. 

Hannibal serves dinner, and Annabelle does what little she can to help - which is mostly carrying dishes to the dinner table and pouring the wine. Mischa rambles about the dishes, explaining their brief history and the meanings behind the complex little designs Hannibal has sown into the food. Hannibal looks to her in pride, and Elio does as well. She is their creation, their beautiful little detail that changes faith. 

But whose faith? 

Annabelle can feel the tension in the room when they all bite into the meat, and she watches relief flood through Mischa’s body when she tastes it. Annabelle takes a small bite of the veal quickly after Mischa, and a beautiful taste bursts on her tongue. 

“Signor Angelo, this is divine,” she whispers, savoring the taste. “You should be very proud.”

Hannibal smirks. “I am very proud. The culinary arts are my pride and joy, and I am glad that I am able to give you a bit of that joy.”

_Except this isn’t the joy of the kill._ “My taste buds are blessed.” The flesh that her teeth bite into does not belong to a human, and a small part of her is surprised that he isn’t feeding her his usual prey. 

They talk of many things, and conversation flows easily between her and Mischa. They discuss music, piano mostly, and she answers Mischa’s questions about performance and art. Hannibal smiles lovingly all the while, and Elio is quieter than Annabelle would expect. It’s not as if he is rude - he is a very kind host that meets all of her expectations of Hannibal’s husband - but she can tell that his mind is much louder than his softly spoken words. His eyes dart across the room, picking apart Annabelle’s movements and words, but he rarely ever comments. His eyes watch her lips when she speaks, not her eyes, but it’s nothing sexual. It’s almost a curiosity as to how her mouth molds the words she chooses. 

But as Elio watches Annabelle, Hannibal watches Elio. Soft, loving gazes almost cradle Will, and he looks smitten. He looks happy, unbearably so. His eyes light up when Mischa speaks about her knowledge of music and art, and he smiles when Will throws in a smart comment about art or morals or life in general. 

He looks like he’s in love. 

Annabelle smiles at the thought. Hannibal is happy here. She was scared that she’d find an angry Hannibal that killed anyone who dared cross him, a Hannibal that fit the traditional mold of insanity, and she feels herself relaxing knowing that Hannibal is happy here. It makes everything easier for her. She doesn’t have to tiptoe as much as she’d planned, and Hannibal might even… easily accept her back into his life. She’s sure he already suspects the truth, but waiting will be less painful, now knowing that her life isn’t on the line. 

Hannibal excuses himself quickly to prepare the desert, and promptly refuses when they offer their assistance. 

“I’d like for it to be a surprise,” he says. 

Annabelle smirks into her wine glass. “Very well, then.”

Hannibal smiles and walks off to the kitchen. 

“How long have you been married to Rafael?” Annabelle asks Elio after sipping at her wine. 

Elio hesitates before asking, feigning the need to count. “Two years,” he answers eventually. 

“And how did you meet?” She asks. 

Mischa looks to Elio with her big blue eyes, wondering how he will answer. 

Elio smiles softly, perhaps at the memory. “A mutual friend introduced us, and I hated him the moment I saw him.”

Annabelle chuckles. “How on earth could you hate a man like him?”

Elio raises his eyebrows and sighs. “He was Mr Perfect, with his three piece suits and polite attitude. Everything I grew up hating, because usually it’s all fake.”

“What changed?” Annabelle asks. 

“He brought me breakfast,” Elio says softly, smiling. His eyes are fondly outlining his wine glass. “And Mischa loved him very quickly, so of course I had to learn how to tolerate him. He became a friend, an anchor for us.”

Annabelle smiles, leaning forward and tucking her hand under her chin, resting it on the back of her hand. “First date?”

Elio snorts. “This feels like an interrogation, Ms DuBois.”

She smirks. “Maybe it is. I want to know your side of the story, not just Rafael’s romanticized version.”

Elio scoffs. “He does like to make everything so much more… romantic. Cheesy, almost.”

Annabelle laughs softly. “So, do tell. First date.”

Elio nearly rolls his eyes. “Not counting the time he brought me breakfast…” he trails off and tries to think. 

Mischa watches him carefully, and when he doesn’t speak after a few more moments, she answers for him. “They never really went on proper dates. Dad was convinced that Rafael was too deep into a social group that he could never be a part of, so usually when they were together, it was just evenings at Rafael’s house. Dinner and conversation and other things.”

“Are you implying things that should not be mentioned at the dinner table?” Annabelle asks and Elio sputters slightly. 

Mischa laughs freely and smirks at her father. “Maybe. But they were dancing around each other for sooo long, it was awful.”

Elio rolls his eyes. “No it wasn’t.”

Mischa raises a brow and gives him what Annabelle would call a ‘bitch face.’ “Yes, it was. You’d go to his house, he’d come to ours, you’d have deep conversations about the human psyche and the meaning of life, and you’d always look at each other with this _longing_ that made me want to vomit.”

Annabelle has to laugh a bit at Mischa’s stressed out expression. 

“They’d compare themselves to Patroclus and Achilles, the famous _lovers_ of Greek mythology, but they’d never mention anything about their feelings for each other,” Mischa continues. “Never.”

“Rafael was the one who did the comparing and stayed silent about it,” Elio mutters, and Annabel can’t help but notice the way he stumbles over his husband’s name. 

“You say your husband’s name her strangely,” she notes softly.  

Elio looks to her in confusion, tilting his head ever so slightly. “What do you mean?”

“You say his name as if it was a stranger’s name, and it sounds alien on your tongue.”

Elio narrows his eyes. “A part of me wants you to elaborate.”

Annabelle nods. “I think I have an analogy that fits, although it’s not really an analogy. It’s an… example, I guess.”

Elio waits. 

“Mischa, cover your ears,” Annabelle says, and rolling her eyes, Mischa complies. “For a lack of a better way to phrase this: Rafael is not the name you scream in the bedroom.”

Elio sputters and flushes furiously, refusing to look anywhere near Annabelle, and she has to laugh at his reaction. He acts so _pure,_ it’s adorable. Mischa uncovers her ears - she heard everything anyways - and laughs along with Annabelle. Elio looks absolutely mortified, and thankfully for him, Hannibal comes back into the room with a tray bearing their dessert. 

One look around the room and Hannibal raises a brow and gives Annabelle a questioning look, but she merely chuckles into her drink. 

“What have I missed?” Hannibal asks as he places the dessert before everyone. 

“Nothing of importance,” Annabelle says cheerfully. 

Mischa laughs and gives Elio a wicked grin. 

“And this looks lovely, Rafael,” Annabelle says, her eyes flicking up to Hannibal’s. “Your cooking is truly an art.”

Hannibal smiles, proud, and begins serving the dessert. “I find that anything I do must be worth the time and effort I put into it, and once I put in that time and effort, I must do my best to make it art.”

Annabelle nods in agreement, a small flicker of pride in her. “Always fill the cup to the brim.” 

Hannibal smirks. “Always.”

The rest of the evening is pleasant, and Annabelle quickly grows fond of Mischa. That little spark of joy and playful attempts at manipulation, it’s intriguing. Not to mention that Mischa knows very well how people view her - as a gentle, kind and sweet child - and she uses that to her advantage. Mischa has no current reason to manipulate Annabelle - not that she knows of, anyways - but Annabelle sees the little flickers of manipulation every once and awhile. The pleading looks given to her father, the easy going manners with Annabelle, and the way she holds herself as a dainty helpless soul, someone who needs to be protected. 

But she never tries to manipulate Hannibal. There are no emotional traps or playful glances, but simply the truth. She _submits_ to Hannibal, and seems to understand that she cannot manipulate him. She is weaker than him, and his to protect. 

Annabelle wonders how intimately Mischa knows her fathers’ kills. 

~O~ 

It’s a few weeks since Annabelle came to dinner at the Angelos, and by now there is a second hand stand up piano in their living room, and Abigail has done nothing but sing high praise for Annabelle and her music. It’s endearing, and Hannibal’s glad that Annabelle has helped encourage Abigail to study the piano. She’s been happily starting from the basics and practicing an hour or more a day, but of course there are still little bumps in the road. Despite her enthusiasm, Hannibal is a ruthless teacher, and more than once Will has seen his daughter nearly snap at anyone who dared comment on her skills. It would be amusing if she wasn’t the daughter of two murderers. 

“Each finger is independent, Abigail,” Hannibal murmurs as he takes hold of her dainty hand and outlines each finger. “Each one has power, and you must let them show that power. Do not rely on your arm for the strength, your movements will become too sloppy and you’ll waste energy. And if your forearms hurt, tell me immediately and we’ll rest. We don’t want to damage your arms when you’ve just begun.”

Abigail nods firmly and moves each finger up and down, one at a time. 

Hannibal smiles softly, proud. “Good. Now, from the top.”

A Minor scale is played yet again, for the… third time? Will isn’t sure. They move onto arpeggios next, and Abigail struggles with the fingering on this one. The fifth, the fourth, the third, it all means nothing to Will and it’s slightly terrifying when Hannibal tells her to slow down and do it again and Abigail responds by finally snapping at Hannibal and telling him she can’t do it. 

There’s silence, and then Hannibal is speaking softly to her, his voice kind. 

“You have no reason to be perfect right now, Abigail,” he whispers. “You began less than two weeks ago, I’m not expecting you to be able to play Clair de Lune as Ms DuBois did. You’re making good progress.” He rests a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Deep breathes, and begin again.”

She hesitates for a moment, wanting to lash back out, yell at him for his nearly pitying tone, but she breathes, nods and obeys, slowly playing again.

After an hour of laboring at the stand up piano in their living room, Hannibal declares that enough for today. Abigail sighs loudly in relief - not even bothering trying to hide it - and Hannibal smirks at her, the golden sunlight casting rich shadows on his face as he smiles. His hair looks a bit like gold in the light, and Will chuckles quietly to himself at the image of Hannibal being a proper blonde. Hannibal catches Will’s laughter at his internal joke and gives him a questioning turn of his head, but Will waves it off and settles deeper into the couch with his book. Hannibal wants him to try to get a job at one of the English schools here to teach basic psychology, so of course he also gave him mounds of textbooks and philosophy rants about the subject. Will’s aware of most of them, of course, but it’s a little nice to refresh his mind on some of the finer points, especially since Hannibal has read all of these books religiously and would be able to see right through Will’s bullshit. 

“Can I go take a walk to Annabelle’s house?” Abigail asks, stowing away her books in the piano bench.

“How many times have you seen her this week?” Hannibal asks. 

Abigail shrugs. “Two? Three?” 

Will raises a disbelieving brow. “You know exactly how many times you’ve seen her, Abigail.”

She sneers playfully at him as she grabs her coat and inches towards the door. “She’s good company and she isn’t as boring at Hannibal when she talks about philosophy and stuff.”

Hannibal makes a tiny grunt - his equivalent of his mocked offense - and he looks at Abigail with fond eyes. Fond eyes that have been forever present in Will’s life ever since they ran away. 

“Is she expecting you?” He asks.

“She said I could come over around 3 PM,” Abigail says, shuffling closer to the door and mixing her stance with submission and pride. _Attempts at manipulation, but acknowledgement that she can’t manipulate Hannibal_ , although this thought is buried deep in Will’s mind. It’s still hard, seeing Abigail as someone who lies and manipulates and kills. Even after so long. 

Hannibal sighs softly, barely heard by Will and sits down next to him, the sigh escaping him as he sinks into the cushion. “Very well. Be back by seven and think carefully about things.”

Abigail nods eagerly and practically pounces at the door. “Thanks, Rafi! See you later!” She shouts before closing the door almost loudly behind her and running out.

Will smiles and rests his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. “I’m glad Annabelle likes her.”

Hannibal nods and rests his cheek on the top of Will’s mess of curls. Will has no plans to see civilization today, so his hair is of course a disaster of dark curls. A mess that he knows to be one of Hannibal’s very small and very secret weaknesses. 

“Annabelle is a very… interesting soul, and I appreciate her willingness to spend time with Abigail. She needs a friend, and Annabelle seems like someone who…”

“Is experienced in our kind of life?” Will murmurs. 

“Familiar,” Hannibal says. “She’s seen glimpses and I think she can see it in us.”

Will scoffs. “Let’s hope she doesn’t screw this up for us,” he whispers. _This_ being freedom, being their domestic life, being their strange love that has come to fruition. 

“It would be a pity to kill her,” Hannibal whispers back, kissing Will’s temple. 

“How would you kill her?” Will asks before he can stop himself. They’ve spent a month and a half in peace and without death, but Will knows who he ran away with. Who he seduced. Hannibal Lecter, a psychopathic (or sociopathic according to Chilton) cannibal. 

His head knows but not his heart. He needs to be reminded of the pain and the blood. 

“Depends on how she has offended me,” Hannibal says blatantly. “If she was rude and crossed lines, I would mock her in death and cook her liver, kidney, and perhaps her lungs.”

Will says nothing, and the silence urges Hannibal to continue. 

“If she betrayed us, I would make her death startling beautiful but… angry. I wouldn’t hesitate to hide my rage,” he continues. _Especially from me,_ Will mentally adds. “I’d cook us her heart.” 

“What if she became a risk?” Will murmurs. “One that hasn’t done anything but could.”

“I wouldn’t kill her when I could instead manipulate her,” Hannibal admits. “It’s much safer that way, and also more entertaining.”

Will scoffs at Hannibal’s little smile. “You psychopath.”

Hannibal raises a brow at him but his gaze stays fond. So fucking fond, almost too soft and too gentle and too loving. This conversation was supposed to remind Will of who he ran away with. Remind him of Beverly, Jack, Alana, Abigail, Miriam Lass, and all of the rest. All of the pain and suffering. Encephalitis and jail. 

And yet here he is, whispering these things and making Will’s heart swell with _fondness_. 

Hannibal kisses Will’s temple gently, his lips caressing Will’s skin and his hands cradling his jaw. “I thought there was no term for what I am.”

“Psychopath comes close enough,” Will mutters, attempting to come off as grumpy.

Hannibal can only smirk. “There are other terms for what I am.”

Will gives him a disbelieving look. “Expand.”

Oh that smirk is going to kill Will. 

“I am your husband,” he whispers into Will’s ear, his words a soft song. “I am a father.”

“You are also a monster,” Will reminds him, testing the limits. Testing how far he can go before Hannibal puts a knife in him. A cheese knife, to be exact. 

“I am your monster,” Hannibal replies, kissing Will’s temple again. “As you are mine.”

Will groans quietly. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” Hannibal whispers, smirking against Will’s temple, his hands resting on Will’s shoulder and hip. 

“Flirt while talking about murder,” Will mutters, giving him a disappointed glance. 

Hannibal’s smirk only grows into a small, blissful smile, and he whispers, “Flirting _by_ talking about murder, my dear Will.”

Will opens his mouth to make some snarky comeback, but meeting Hannibal’s eyes is a mistake. He’s trapped - again - by the warmth in Hannibal’s dark eyes, and he’s stunned by the pure… _joy_ he sees there. The sunlight kisses his skin and gives him the impression of an angel, so Will can’t really stop himself from leaning in and kissing Hannibal softly on the lips, fondly. It’s become so natural, just to lean in and press his lips against Hannibal’s. 

He stills as he mentally notes that this is what Hannibal wanted. What he planned. Hannibal was luring Will into a cruel, cruel trap where he could believe he was loved, and his only mistake was actually learning to love Will. 

But just because he loves Will doesn’t mean his love isn’t seven levels of fucked up. 

_I am the lure, now. This is my design, not Hannibal’s. I’m in control here._

Will clings desperately onto the belief that he is the one in control. 

“Are you happy here?” Will whispers against his slightly parted lips. 

Hannibal hums in thought and kisses him again, fondly. “Immensely so.”

“Really?”

Hannibal leans back and pins Will with his gaze. “Why wouldn’t I be?” His hands shift across Will’s body and come to rest at his hands, grasping them tightly, fondly. His thumb rubs comfortingly against Will’s palms. Intimate. “We’ve escaped Jack and the FBI. We are together with Abigail. We’re in Florence, the place where I became a man.” He lifts Will’s hand to his lips and brushes his lips across the skin there, worshiping his fingers and palms. “And we’re together, as lovers.” Will can feel the smile against his skin. “Intimate.”

Will presses his lips to the top of Hannibal’s head, his hair sticking slightly to his lips. “We’ve never truly been intimate.”

_Not all of the walls have been broken down, yet._

Brown, almost red eyes lift to meet blue. A bright, intelligent blue. 

“Not yet.”

Will can’t help but shiver at those words. At the thought of being with Hannibal like that. Of finally binding the man to him, staking his claim on him and to truly be the only one to know him like this. Intimacy of minds and bodies. 

And there’s also the lovely extra of erasing Alana’s touch from Hannibal’s skin. 

“Are you hungry?” Hannibal asks as his hand comes to rest on Will’s stomach. 

Will shrugs. “I could eat.”

Hannibal smiles. “Let’s get something to eat. I know somewhere you will enjoy.”

~O~

“You look beautiful in the sun, Elio.”

Will snorts into his drink, something he knows Hannibal could kill him for if he wasn’t Will Graham. 

“You’re so cliche,” Will mutters into his drink, catching Hannibal’s playful gaze. 

“You don’t seem too averse to it,” Hannibal says, smirking like the self congratulating asshole he is. 

“Don’t assume my thoughts,” Will responds, looking away and convincing himself he isn’t blushing. He’s doesn’t… blush. He’s a grown ass man, he can handle a little cafe date with his alleged husband. “No psychoanalysing.” 

Hannibal smiles, and it’s as radiant as the sun. “Of course.”

They talk about little, pointless things. Music, art, new jobs, Abigail’s education. Nothing too deep or too complex, but Hannibal can tell that there is a tension to Will. A tension he knows a little sun won’t erase. 

Will smiles at his husband, glowing golden under the sunlight. His gentle, fond, beautiful little lamb of a lover. He looks harmless, sitting across from Will at an outdoor table as they watch the people move past them and the wind blow the clouds by. No one would suspect the hidden fangs Hannibal so carefully keeps under check. 

Oh but Will knows that Hannibal isn’t some quiet little _lamb._ He is the wolf which lured the sheep away before sinking his teeth in and enjoying the fruits of his hunt. 

And it’s been very long since Hannibal hunted. 

Will needs a reminder of the man who framed him for murder and insanity. Of the cruel _beast_ inside Hannibal. And the most direct way to do so results in dead bodies. 

At this point, Will isn’t scared of the fact that bodies will drop. He’s seen enough death and art made from death, and he’s fucking married to a cannibal. He’s not worried about the death. What he is worried about is whose bodies will fall. He’s scared of those bodies being… undeserving of the transformation Hannibal will gift them with. He’s scared that he’ll have to stomach deaths that aren’t _righteous._

But he won’t let that happen. He _cannot_ allow that to happen. He can convince Hannibal to kill someone deserving of death. Someone of his choosing. He can convince Hannibal to kill for him. And by doing so, he reminds himself of the monster in his bed. He sees for himself the glorious release of his monster. 

Will gently wonders if he looks good in red. 

“Will?” Hannibal asks softly, reaching out and grasping Will’s hand in his own, cupping it, cradling it. “Where have you gone?”

Will smirks slightly. “Nowhere. I’m still here.”

_I was with you._

Hannibal gives him a disbelieving look but he lets Will’s little white lie pass. “Do you regret this? Coming with me?”

Will’s shocked by the sudden change in topic. Is that where Hannibal’s mind ran off to while he was contemplating murder? The dimly lit kitchen and Abigail’s quivering lips and his own shaking body? 

“No,” Will whispers, squeezing Hannibal’s hand comfortingly. “I don’t regret choosing this.” He pauses and lifts his eyes up to Hannibal’s. “Why?”

Hannibal shakes his head. “I was wondering what life would be like if you had not come with me. If you had truly betrayed me and sided with Jack.”

“You would have killed me, wouldn’t you?” Will whispers, watching Hannibal the way a hunter stalks his prey. Still as stone but ready to pounce. 

“No,” Hannibal murmurs, caressing Will’s gaze with his own. “I could never bring myself to rid you from this world.”

“Abigail, then,” he accuses. “She would have died in that kitchen, just like the way Garret Jacob Hobbs tried to kill her.”

Hannibal doesn’t reply for a moment, and Will sees the truth in his eyes. He sees the blood bursting from Abigail’s throat a second time as Hannibal finishes Hobbs’ work. His design. He sees himself, helpless on the floor, not quite lifeless, and just conscious enough to watch Abigail die. 

“You would have taken her from us,” he states. There is no room to question his words. 

“People do foolish things when they are overcome with emotion,” Hannibal says, searching for an excuse for the crimes he never committed. 

“And what emotions would have overcome you?” Will asks, demands. He already suspects the answer, knows the answer. 

“Agony. Betrayal,” he says, plainly and almost… righteously. “I was drowned in the thought of being betrayed by you.”

_Betrayal_ _and_ _forgiveness_ _are_ _best_ _seen_ _as_ _something_ _akin_ _to_ _falling_ _in_ _love_ _._

“Betrayed you by doing what? Choosing Jack?” Will’s eyes narrow and his head cocks to the side as he leans forward, his forearms resting on the table. 

“By denying the truth of yourself, of ourselves,” Hannibal says almost nonchalantly, as if he was ordering a cup of coffee. His eyes bore into Will’s, and there is a certain understating of the justification Hannibal’s hypothetical actions have. “I made a place for Abigail in our world, made a world where she could fit and thrive under our care, and you nearly threw it away.”

“And you would have taken her out of my world, had I decided to throw your world away.” The words could have been spat and thrown cruely into Hannibal’s face, but they instead escape as a whisper, a gentle realization. A quiet damnation. 

“Yes,” Hannibal admits. 

Will nods and flicks his eyes away from Hannibal, instead resting on the water of the river, glittering in the sunlight. 

_I won’t leave you. I can’t leave you. Because if I leave, Abigail dies._

_I am the lure._

“Let’s go back home,” Will whispers once their coffee and food is done. 

Hannibal nods and rises to pay the bill. “Let’s.”

~O~

_“Bitch, why do you always complain?”_

The woman says nothing, only turns her head away and keeps walking.

_“Listen to me, for fucks sake! I am your husband and I deserve more respect!”_

The woman clenches her teeth and says nothing. 

_“Mina!”_ He shouts before slapping her across the face.

Will feels Hannibal tensing beside him as they walk past the now screaming couple, his hands itching to do something. Not to defend this woman’s honor, but to destroy what little is left of the man’s. He looks up slightly to watch Hannibal’s profile, an image of stony control, but Will can see the clenched jaw and the eyes that never stray from the pavement in front of them. 

_A hunt is long overdue._

He grasps Hannibal’s hand and leans in, their shoulders pressing up against each other. What he has in mind is reckless, careless, idiotic, foolish, and the whole like, but he needs it. _Hannibal_ needs it. He needs that tension to be released and he needs to _see_ the monster hidden away behind his person suit. The cold and calculating monster has been seen, has been brutally revealed to him when he was thrown in jail, and he doesn’t need to know it anymore. He is aware of how manipulative Hannibal can be. He is aware of how carefully Hannibal planned his demise. He is aware of the calculating devil.

But he has yet to fully see the monster without control, without grace, without caution. The beast which lashes out at throats without a second thought, the monster which nearly gutted Will in his kitchen. He needs to see Hannibal laid bare before him, completely devoid of any lies and person suits. Simply blood and fire.

Simply _vulnerable._

“Hannibal,” Will whispers, almost seductively into Hannibal’s ear, his breath hotly brushing against Hannibal’s skin. His eyes flicker once more to the asshole of a man, and then back to Hannibal. “I want him.”

Hannibal hesitates before moving, before responding, and when he does, he turns his head to meet Will’s eyes and he is delighted by the determination and… darkness he sees in Will’s eyes. 

“Are you sure, my love?” Hannibal whispers back, keeping his eyes trained on Will’s. “Do you really want to do this, Will?”

Will chuckles halfheartedly, leaning close to whisper into his ear again. “I think a hunt is long overdue.”

God, the shiver that runs up Hannibal’s spine is _delightful_ , and Will takes a moment to see through his eyes. His lover, his newly wed lover, is here in his arms and asking to indulge in one of his pleasures. A pleasure where they will both be laid bare before each other, and they may decide whether or not the other is worthy of their affections. 

Hannibal smirks, a devilish crack in his facade, and he kisses Will lightly on the temple. “Would you hunt so impulsively, without a plan?”

Will scoffs, pulling Hannibal into a nearby store so they may circle back around to find their victim. “You know I would.”

“I know that you have,” Hannibal responds, his eyes sparkling with childish glee. 

“And when have I done such a thing?” Will mused, his eyes meeting Hannibal’s. “You’ll have to remind me.”

“When have you impulsively lashed out?” Hannibal murmurs, almost seductively. “When have you impulsively tried to kill someone?”

Will smirks, lowering his eyes. “I have never done such a thing.” He lifts his eyes. “I have only sent someone to do so.”

“Sent someone to do what you should have done yourself,” Hannibal murmurs.

“It was no less intimate that killing someone with a gun,” Will whispers, tilting his head up and watching Hannibal with gentle eyes. “And we both know that you demand intimacy between us.”

It’s lovely, watching the arousal rise in Hannibal’s eyes. 

“Shall we follow him and ask some questions?” Hannibal whispers, his excitement almost physically present in the air. 

“You’ll pose as a friend,” Will says.

“And we’ll pose as innocent.”

~O~

The man lives in a small apartment, a few miles south of their own place. After following him and striking up a pleasant (painful) conversation with the man, Hannibal can feel Will bristling with excitement next to him. He allows himself a small smirk at the sight of his dear Will quivering in the anticipation of a kill, wondering briefly if this is how he was when he began. He’d like to think he was calmer and more sophisticated in his excitement, at least the planned murders. The initial ones were impulsive, acting on instinct to protect what little he had left, so Hannibal chooses to ignore what he felt during those. This kill he is about to share with Will is not an impulsive kill. A bit short of planning and timing, but still precalculated and waited for. This is much more elegant than just sticking a knife in a man’s temple and calling it done. No, this is the one of Will’s first steps in Hannibal’s world, finally embracing the beauty of the darkness. 

_You beautiful thing._

It’s four days later, and Abigail is staying with Annabelle for the night. Will had doubts about whether or not they should let her stay with someone they’ve only known for a couple weeks, but Hannibal had reassured him that nothing will happen. 

“Abigail is strong and clever,” Hannibal whispered the night before, brushing a strand of hair from Will’s eyes as he learned over Hannibal, his eyes creased with worry. “If something were to happen, she would protect herself.”

“Why do you trust Annabelle?” Will whispered. 

Hannibal smiled. “She knows our kind. She knows what we are. She wouldn’t dare go against us.”

Will scoffed. “So your trust is placed in her fear of us.”

“Basically,” Hannibal said, smirking before softening his expression and leaning up to press a chaste kiss against Will’s lips. “Trust me, _mylimasis_.”

Will isn’t the only one eagerly anticipating this kill. Hannibal, for all his grace and control, nearly shivers at the thought of finally sharing a kill with his Will. Of finally seeing the darkness inside him, raw and exposed and entirely at Hannibal’s mercy because Will has granted him access to these parts of his soul. 

The man they’re about to kill, his life is worth nothing. Abusive to his wife and holding a mediocre job. A boring man that Hannibal couldn’t care less about. But his death, now that will be worth everything. He will be the catalyst to Will’s finally stage of becoming. It’s an understatement to say that Hannibal is excited for his death. 

They ring the doorbell at 10:27, not quite late but still well enough into the darkness that no one will be roaming the streets leisurely at this hour. His wife - Mina - answers the door, and with a polite smile and authentic Italian accent, he asks if he can speak to her husband, posing as a friend. She is suspecting and scared, but with a few urges from Will, she nods obediently and goes back into the house to fetch him. 

“You can see how terrified she is, right?” Will mutters under his breath, casting an angry glance at the closed door. 

Hannibal nods. She has instincts ingrained into her to protect herself from danger and to flee at the sight of it, but unfortunately, she’s been tied long enough to her husband to begin actively ignoring that gauge for danger. She has to live constantly with the most barbaric kind of monster, after all. A man who is unrightfully arrogant. Nothing more than a pig, in honestly, though. A pig destined for the slaughter. Hannibal quietly imagines a scenario of coming back to see the woman after her husband is disposed of, pretending to mourn yet guiding her to a safer place. Playing God.

There is some angry muttering on the other side of the door, and it jerks open to reveal their intended victim. 

_“Yeah?”_ The man grumbles in drunken Italian, abusing the language. _“Do I know you?”_

_“We have some issues to discuss with you, concerning a promotion of sorts,”_ Hannibal says, his voice honey on unsuspecting ears. 

_“You work with Signor Mateo?”_ He asks, setting a foot outdoors and inching the door closed behind him.

Hannibal nods. _“Would you like to close the door? Make it easier for us to discuss?”_

The man shrugs and steps completely outside in his sandals and closes the door roughly behind him. He honestly lacks a severe amount of grace for a human being. 

_“So? Does Signor Mateo want something from me?”_  

Hannibal smiles, a cruel wicked thing. He knows it raises the hackles on the man before him. Will is still beside him, the calm before their storm. _Are you ready, my love? Are you ready to take a life with me?_

_“No,”_ Hannibal muses, smirking as if he’s just thought of some inside joke. _“We want something from you.”_

The man’s mind probably flicks to money, or drugs, or some stupid deal he became a part of many years ago. Whatever he is thinking, he never has time to speak his mind, because Will deftly slams the man’s head against the wall, rendering him unconscious and limp in Will’s arms. 

“I’m not entirely sure what he was saying, but God he sounds annoying,” Will mutters under his breath, a savage grimace on his face as he looks at the man. “Let’s go.”

They take the man - Will can’t be bothered to know his name, he’ll see it soon enough on the headlines - to an alley a few blocks down, holding him with his arms slung over their shoulders, as if he was drunk. When they arrive at the alley, they drop him on the ground with little grace and stand before him, like a couple of young gods, eager for their sacrifice. 

“Do you wish to see him displayed?” Hannibal murmurs as he hands Will the knife, his own knife, glinting in the dim moonlight.

Will thinks for a moment, nothing more, and shakes his head. “He doesn’t deserve it,” he murmurs. “He’s subhuman.”

Hannibal could kiss him there and then. 

The man wakes soon enough - does it matter how much time has passed? - and Hannibal opens his mouth to suggest gagging the man to avoid being discovered, but before the words have passed his lips, Will has deftly slit the man’s throat after the first beginnings of a groan escaped his vocal cords. Blood spills from the wound, pouring like water spilling from the edge of a cliff, and it coats Will’s hands and shirt. It looks black in the moonlight.

“Fuck,” Will whispers, staring at the blood and the dying man before him. “It wasn’t supposed to… it was supposed to be different.”

Hannibal kneels next to Will and places a hand on his lower back, attempting to be soothing. 

“It’s alright.”

“It was supposed to last longer, we were supposed to kill him together, and then I just-”

“Will.” The word is small and stern, meant to ground him into the present moment. “I am not expecting you to-”

“No, Hannibal,” Will whispers angrily, turning to Hannibal with a clenched jaw and desperate eyes. “This was supposed to be _our_ kill. Where I could finally see you kill, with me, to lose yourself in the kill.”

Hannibal takes a moment to formulate a response. “You wanted to see me for what I truly am.”

Will laughs bitterly. I _need_ to see you. I need to remind myself what I tied myself to.”

“Have you not seen enough to be convinced of what I am?” Hannibal murmurs.

“What I’ve seen? What I’ve seen is the aftermath of things, Hannibal. The bodies displayed, already dead and mutated. The insanity boiling in my brain. The chips falling onto the table.” He chuckles another bitter laugh and hangs his head, gripping the knife tightly. “I haven’t seen you lose yourself in… in whatever it is.”

Hannibal brings a hand to caress Will’s cheek and the small stubble there. “You have.”

Will turns his head to glimpse at Hannibal with blue eyes that reflect the pale moonlight. 

“You saw me break,” Hannibal whispers. “You saw me respond to the threat of losing everything.”

_A knife in my stomach, and my daughter bleeding out on the floor._

“I did lose myself,” he continues, pressing his forehead to Will’s temple. “I lost myself to the very thought of being betrayed by you. I lost myself to whatever this is.” This being this relationship. This being this companionship that involves too much death and betrayal and lies twisted into their lives. 

“I lost myself in you,” Will whispers, thoughtful. “But at the same time, I found myself. I’ve never known myself as well as I know myself when I’m with you.”

Hannibal brings the hand on Will’s lower back to rest on his nape, brushing the hairline. “I have lost myself. I’ve lost myself in you.”

They stay there for a while, kneeling side by side and breathing the same air, before Will shuffles away and looks Hannibal in the eye. “Show me,” he whispers before clearing his throat and speaking more clearly. “Show me how to remove the organs.”

Hannibal pauses for only a moment. “Are you sure?”

Will nods and presses the knife into Hannibal’s hand. “I need to see.”

The knife is handled with care and evidence of experience, and he quietly directs Will to move the body into a more accessible position, laying flat between their kneeling figures. The knife is drawn down the chest, drawing dead blood, and while Hannibal’s better sense is screaming at him to find a scalpel and put gloves on Will’s hands which delve beneath the skin of their victim, he can’t be bothered. The sight of his Will coated in blood and reaching deeper into his kill… it’s delightful. This is what Hannibal has been waiting for, wishing for and cultivating out of Will since the moment he glimpsed madness behind non-prescription glasses. 

Removing almost all of the organs takes time, and Hannibal knows that they need to leave time to clean and remove evidence, but he allows himself to indulge in this for once. To watch with patient eyes as Will catalogues the methods of removing flesh from a man. They remove everything but the lungs, and Hannibal wonders if there is some sort of meaning Will intends by it. Everything but breath stolen? 

“I want to leave it all here,” Will murmurs once the chest cavity is clear of everything but the lungs, the other organs scattered across the floor around them. “Put is back and let them find it. No trophies.”

Hannibal nods, but asks, “Why?”

Will smiles something that doesn’t reach his eyes and barely moves his lips. A twitch in the corner of his mouth. “He doesn’t deserve to be honored. He deserves to keep everything, but suffer for it.”

“Like the woman?” Hannibal asks. “Are you attempting to create a parallel?”

Will shrugs. “Maybe. She had a marriage but it was killing her. He has all of his organs, but he’s dead. And the Ripper always takes trophies. We aren’t taking any.”

Hannibal smirks a little as he places the heart back into the rib cage. “We are not the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Will scoffs softly and rolls his eyes. “No. We’re not. I dare say that we’re something more dangerous.”

“And sloppy,” Hannibal mutters. “We have a lot of evidence to remove.”

Will nods. “I trust you’ll help me clean this up.”

The body is laid out on the same street as the man’s home, his chest open and filled with bougainvillea: a fond memory of Hannibal’s first time in Florence. Prints and any DNA from the pair has been meticulously removed, and the only evidence left now are the two men, covered in blood, leaning against each other in an alley relatively far away from the body.

“I propose a deal,” Will whispers breathlessly against Hannibal’s jaw, his bloodied hands clutching to Hannibal’s arms, steadying himself. As if he needs steadying. It is quite clear to the both of them that Will has never been more stable, more clear headed. 

“Yes?” Hannibal murmurs back, his eyes trained on his lover who is coiled tight, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

“Their deaths have to be righteous,” Will demands softly. “I won’t kill anyone for the sake of killing them.”

Even if a man lies a hundred meters away, beautifully carved open just because he was rude to his wife.

Hannibal nods as he nuzzles Will’s damp curls which stick to his skin. “Every death must have a purpose.”

“That is the darkness I hold inside me,” Will whispers, closing his eyes and resting his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. “I am not needlessly cruel.”

Hannibal hums in agreement. “Nor am I.”

Will raises his head and smirks. “No. It’s just that your reasons are often quite insignificant.”

Hannibal’s smile splits his face. “But there are reasons,” he reminds. 

Will nods. “Yes. There are.”

Hannibal holds up Will’s head with a hand at his chin, watching him closely and memorizing the way blood latches onto Will’s skin. “But you finally feel it.” It’s not a question, but Will still needs to confirm it. Admit it to himself.

“Yes,” he whispers. “I’ve… I’ve always felt it.”

Hannibal hums, cradling Will’s face in his blood-coated hands. “Do you finally admit it to yourself?”

“Do I admit that I see your darkness in me?” Will whispers. “Do I finally admit to be the monster you molded me into?” The last words are spat softly.

“I never molded you into anything, Will,” Hannibal reminds him gently, like a mothering chiding a crying babe. “I can whisper through the chrysalis, but what hatches follows its own nature and is beyond me.” He brushes his lips against Will’s. “I didn’t mold you into what you are now. I simply tilted a light to it, allowing it to bloom.”

“Bloom under your guidance,” Will hisses.

“Yes,” Hannibal states. “I would not stand by and watch as you attempted to live a normal life and deny your true self. Not after you killed Hobbs.”

“You intervened long before that, Hannibal,” Will snaps. “You sent me after Hobbs.”

“I never made you kill him,” Hannibal murmurs. “I merely gave you the opportunity to do so.”

Will laughs bitterly and pushes away enough to meet Hannibal’s eyes. “And have I finally become the monster you see me as? Have I met your expectations? Even with a quick kill and a messy display?”

Hannibal narrows his eyes at the slight self hatred he sees under Will’s words. “You have become everything I never expected and everything I never knew I wanted.”

Will scoffs, pulling away, but Hannibal pulls him close again. 

“You are beautiful,” Hannibal whispers, the words a psalm against Will’s skin. “Even more so than anything I could ever imagined.”

“Beautiful?” Will whispers, clutching onto Hannibal. “Beautiful, now that I am caked in blood and in your grasp?”

“No,” Hannibal murmurs, kissing Will chastely on the corner of his mouth. “Beautiful, now that you have finally shed your person suit and been laid bare before me.”

Will watches Hannibal closely, watches the adoration and worship he sees in Hannibal’s eyes. 

“I am not your puppet,” Will reminds them, himself more so. “I am not your toy to wind up and let loose.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “Never, Will.”

“Never _again_ ,” Will corrects softly. “I am your equal. I stand on the same grounds as you, knowing the same things and holding the same amount of power.” His eyes narrow and his jaw sets. “I am my own person, with my own darkness, and I am choosing to share this with you.”

“And I am honored,” Hannibal whispers into Will’s cheek. 

“We are the same, now,” Will whispers.

“Finally.”

There has been a tenderness in this past month, but tenderness could only last so long. Gentleness could only be present for so long. The storm inside them has held its breath for long enough, and now thunder has come. 

Will kisses him, softly still. “So make us one.”

Hannibal watches him with awe. 

“Take me home,” Will whispers. 

“Always,” Hannibal replies.

~O~

The journey home was first quick and efficient, but then slower and more careless, and now, as the door is unceremoniously shoved open, it’s hopeless and desperate. Hands are threaded through hair, roaming bodies and touching anything and everything. Feet stumble through the threshold, attempting to hold their bodies steady, but there’s just too much to hold up. Someone shoves the other roughly up against the door, kissing without mercy, and hands hold waists and jaws, securing the other in place. The dimly lit room reveals Will to be pressed against the door, his spine arching to touch more of Hannibal, and his hands are digging into his hips as he drags his lover closer. Hannibal holds Will’s head in his hands, maneuvering him as he pleases, kissing and biting and whispering soft words of adoration and dedication. 

“ _Mylimasis_ ,” Hannibal whispers, dropping his head to worship the length of Will’s neck, revealed as the buttons come undone with nimble, eager hands. 

“Get back up here,” Will demands with a groan as Hannibal latches onto his skin with unforgiving yet loving teeth. “I’m not done kissing you.”

Hannibal chuckles against Will’s pulse, smiling as he feels the blood rush under his skin. “You mean _attacking_ my mouth.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” Will mutters as he attempts to drag Hannibal back up to his lips.

“I was quite busy having my mouth assaulted by you,” Hannibal teases, dropping further down Will’s newly revealed chest, nosing along the scars and curves of muscle. 

Will can only respond with a breathy chuckle which melts into a soft moan as Hannibal reaches his jeans.

“I still don’t understand your love for jeans,” Hannibal whispers against the bulge in Will’s apparently appalling jeans.

“They’re practical,” Will whispers, his eyes fluttering shut despite his desperate need to watch Hannibal do whatever he’s about to do.

“Well, not at this moment,” Hannibal smirks, lifting his eyes to Will’s face. “Right now, clothing in general is impractical.”

“Then get them off of me, _Hannibal,”_ Will whispers, smirking at the soft moan that barely escapes Hannibal’s lips. 

Will swears he can hear Hannibal mutter a quiet ‘fuck,’ and it’s a lovely feeling: making the great Hannibal Lecter utter such profanities. 

The jeans are thrown away without mercy, leaving Will in only his tightening boxers and dangling shirt. Hannibal rises to kiss Will again, but Will ducks his head to kiss at Hannibal’s neck, his own hands practically ripping away the shirt and trousers Hannibal has on. 

“Get them off,” he hisses at Hannibal’s skin, and Hannibal laughs at the lack of control Will seems to have. 

“But of course,” he whispers in reply, joining Will’s hands in the battle against thread and buttons. 

They stumble across the room, one article of clothing joining the next in a trail to the bedroom. They both nearly fall when Hannibal’s trousers fall to his ankles, stumbling and catching themselves on the edge of the couch, and Will is tempted to just stop and do it on the couch. 

“No,” Hannibal whispers, knowing Will’s thought when he catches the longing gaze to the couch. “I wish to take my time with you.”

“Fucking on the couch too crass for you, Hannibal?” Will whispers against his throat.

“It’s not _intimate,”_ Hannibal growls. 

“And you demand intimacy between us,” Will murmurs.

“I think we deserve it, considering we are both covered in the blood of our shared kill.”

He scoffs. “And taking a life together is most intimate.” Even if the death wasn’t shared. Merely the aftermath.

“It is,” Hannibal mused. “The basest instinct laid bare before each other, and accepting each other for it.”

“Loving each other for it.” He kisses at the collarbone before him, worshipping the skin with his lips. 

“So let me take you to bed,” Hannibal pleads softly. “Let me show you everything.”

Will kisses him in reply.

This month in Europe has been intimate. It has been tender, loving, and the aspect of life Will found himself desperately scared of losing. He woke every morning besides Hannibal, kissing him and murmuring words of adoration, before greeting a very grumpy Abigail in her bedroom. They’d rise after the sun did, lounging about the kitchen, being sappy and at peace. He’d taught Abigail how to make fishing lures, twisting the thread between their fingers to construct a design that could never be replicated. He’d laid with Hannibal in the sun, stretching in the sun like an overly pleased cat. His life had become simple, bright, and happy. Abigail alive, Hannibal with him, and the sunlight turning his skin slightly tan. 

He’s been strangely happy.

Happy, and scared. Scared of losing this happiness he has been given, scared of Hannibal taking away what he had given. Scared of waking to Abigail bleeding out on the kitchen floor and a knife in his gut.

_I am the lure._ This is his mantra, his prayer. He has seduced Hannibal Lecter, and must continue to do so if he is to keep Abigail alive. 

But while he lures, Hannibal stalks. And Will, the only one who could truly understand Hannibal, has been stalked and hunted. Hannibal is strung up on his hook, but he’s stuck in between Hannibal’s teeth. Impaled, mounted, and displayed on his Ravenstag’s antlers. His beloved Ravenstag with it’s soft fur and warm embrace. 

_It’s too easy, loving Hannibal._

The door to their bedroom is opened with unsteady hands, demanding hands, and they finally fall together onto the bed, Hannibal below Will as he straddles him, still kissing. Hands tilt Will’s head down to Hannibal can properly kiss him, tongue curling around tongue, tasting and assaulting mouths, leaving nothing unexplored. This… this is familiar. Wrapped in Hannbal’s arms and kissed sweetly. This is what Will has been given for the past month. This is what he has learned to cherish.

But this isn’t everything Hannibal can give. This isn’t everything Hannibal is. Hannibal is… dark. He can be cruel, merciless. He is the image of the devil, beautiful, yet everything will should fear, hate, even. So what does that make Will? The angel that Hannibal has corrupted, or the devil that Hannibal has revealed? The sheep in wolf’s clothing or the wolf in sheep’s clothing?

“Where has you mind run off to?” Hannibal murmurs into the patch of skin under Will’s ear, kissing it softly. 

Will shakes his head lightly. “Nowhere. I’m here.”

Hannibal chuckles lightly, the sound more felt that heard, his chest rumbling against Will’s. “I surely hope so. I wouldn’t want you to run off as I make love to you.”

Will will refuse the blush that rises to his cheeks. Not even Abigail could make him admit it. “Is this what this is?” He asks lowly, rocking against Hannibal with full intent to seduce, accepting his fate of being seduced. “Making love? Is this not a result of blood passion?”

“This is a result of everything,” Hannibal whispers, as if conveying his sweetest secrets. Hands run up and down Will’s sides, desperate and full of intent. “Of every moment spent with you, climaxing in these moments.” 

Will stills under his hands. “Is it really?”

Hannibal smiles something sweet and tender. “This is me, finally laying myself bare before you. An offering to the deity you have become.”

Will kisses him, silencing the foolish words. “You’re supposed to be fucking me, Doctor Lecter, not sweet talking me.”

“I am supposed to be making you writhe in pleasure, _mylimasis_ ,” Hannibal utters simply as his hands dip down to rise and fall over the curves of Will’s body. “Worshipping you. Giving you everything I am.”

Will stutters as Hannibal’s hands drift down to cup his groin. “What you are,” he breathes. “Is a monster.”

Hannibal smirks, leaning in and whispering against Will’s lips, “What makes me a monster, Will?” 

Will gives him a heated glare which morphs into a roll of eyes as Hannibal applies more pressure to his growing erection. 

“Is it how I kill?” Hannibal whispers, dragging Will’s body against him. “How I eat? How I destroy others around me, manipulating them into my puppets for my entertainment? What was it, Will, that made you realize I am a monster?”

“How you lied to me,” Will hisses, grinding himself down onto Hannibal, smirking at the breathy moan that escapes him. “How you made me believe I killed my daughter and how you betrayed me and left me to _rot.”_

“I didn’t leave you, Will,” Hannibal whispers as he rolls Will onto his back, landing with a small ‘oof’ as he gently caresses him. “I quickened your becoming. I urged the darkness inside of you to rise.”

“I didn’t know that,” Will hisses, biting at Hannibal’s lips. “I didn’t know that you did it out of twisted love. I thought I was _abandoned_ by you.”

Hannibal stills, resting his hands on Will’s hips. “I will never abandon you again, Will.”

“Really?” Will whispers, watching Hannibal carefully, lifting a hand to his cheek. “Will you never leave me?”

Hannibal shakes his head and dips down to kiss Will sweetly, tenderly. “Never.”

“Is this what you have to offer me?” Will muses as they kiss, his hands curling into Hannibal’s hair. “Tenderness and admiration?”

“I have my worship to offer you,” Hannibal whispers, leaning down and bracing his weight with his left arm beside Will’s head. “I just watched you kill a man with my knife, watched you submerge yourself in your own darkness rather than the darkness of others.” He kisses him again. “There is nothing but tenderness.”

“No darkness in the bedroom, then?” Will whispers. “No angry sex and kinky bondage?”

Hannibal chuckles, running his free hand up and down Will’s sides. “Not yet.” Another kiss. “Not tonight.”

Will moans softly, surrendering to the feeling of Hannibal’s hands on him. “Kiss me,” he whispers, playing the desperate, submissive role. Submissive to Hannibal. Only Hannibal.

“As you wish,” Hannibal murmurs, tilting his head down to kiss the skin of Will’s arched neck. His body bends over Will, protecting him from the rest of the world, or perhaps hiding him away like a dragon with its horde. His lips worship - there is really no other word to describe what Hannibal does - Will, whispering promises of love in a language Will can’t understand. 

He continues to kiss Will, worship him with tender kisses, and he traces aimless patterns across Will’s skin, painting a masterpiece that only Will can see. Will’s hands find themselves threaded through surprisingly silky hair, cradling Hannibal’s head and guiding him in his work. Soft moans are released, small shivers seize Will as he is lavished with kisses, and he finds himself relaxing, melting into Hannibal’s touches. He’s still hard, but the air of desperateness has disappeared, simply lost in the touches Hannibal gives him. 

“You’re such a sap,” Will whispers playfully, grinning when Hannibal’s eyes tilt up to meet his. 

“I told you I would take my time with you,” Hannibal replies, smirking into his next kisses. Will’s skin and body is explored, discovered and recorded in the halls of Hannibal’s mind. Lips tug on skin, bringing blood to the unbroken surface, and his tongue claims and memorized the feeling of Will’s skin. “One day, you must let me spend hours merely memorizing you. Drawing you and committing you to memory. Reconstructing this body in my mind so I may know you better than anyone.”

“You already know me best,” Will reminds him, hands stroking Hannibal’s head and hair while he smiles fondly. 

Hannibal hums, acknowledging it before continuing to lather skin with kisses. 

“This is far too slow, Hannibal,” Will groans softly when Hannibal refuses to touch where Will wants him the most. 

“Would you like me to speed things up, then?” Hannibal rasps, moving up Will’s body slowly, lips brushing against skin before coming to rest and to whisper against Will’s mouth again. “Plunge headfirst into the pleasure without any patience?”

“I need to see you lose yourself in the pleasure,” Will whispers, nibbling at Hannibal’s lower lip, earning a soft moan. “Lose yourself in me.”

Hannibal watches him fondly. “Only if you return the favor.” 

Will respond by surging up and shoving Hannibal into the bed, straddling him and kissing him harshly. Tongues twist and teeth click against each other, but Hannibal seems all too eager for this. 

“Lose yourself in me,” Hannibal echoes, almost taunting Will. 

_I am the lure._

He grinds down on Hannibal’s not so soft groin and smirks at the groan released, followed quickly by hands yanking in his hair to drag him back down to Hannibal’s unforgiving mouth. 

_You are the hunter._

“Beautiful boy,” Hannibal rasps, his hands grasping Will’s jaw and hair. 

Will can’t respond, so he only moves his hand down Hannibal’s chest - one that is endearingly covered in a patch of hair - to his firm stomach and then pausing at the hem of his underwear. He thumbs at the cloth there, pulling it up and down before moving away. The hand returns to cup at Hannibal’s erection through the material, and Hannibal moans, shifting his leg over Will’s hip to tilt him over and onto his back. 

With Hannibal above him and in between his legs, he palms at his sex and takes his time in watching Hannibal crawl towards his release. His lips are parted, his bangs hanging over his eyes, cheeks flushed, and eyes _hungry_ beyond belief. Beautiful. 

He rests his head on Hannibal’s collarbone and whispers, “Are you fucking me or am I fucking you?”

Hannibal huffs out a chuckle, biting lightly at Will’s earlobe. “Depends.”

“On what?” Will’s hand slips under Hannibal’s boxers, and his breath catches when he feels heated flesh. 

“On who seduces who,” Hannibal rasps, his eyes fluttering shut and head falling as Will palms at him. 

“So you’d let me fuck you?” Will whispers into Hannibal’s ear, his cheeks tickled by his dirty blond hair stained with a touch of blood. “Let me own you, completely, and have my way with you?”

“Yes,” Hannibal breathes without hesitation. “I wish to give you everything, _mylimasis_.”

Well isn’t that convenient. 

“Let me,” Will whispers, tender, as his hands peel away Hannibal’s boxers. “Let me lose myself in you.”

Hannibal kisses him again, desperately giving and taking from Will with his kiss. “Will you be gentle?” Hannibal gasps, pushing _down_ as he speaks, lips pressing against lips. “Or would you take without mercy?”

Will grabs his hips and arches up into his touches. “I would make love to you,” Will responds. “I would give you everything I am.”

He can feel Hannibal’s smile against his lips. “What you are is _angry_ , Will.”

“I can be tender,” Will snaps as he lips at Hannibal’s bottom lip and rock against him. “I can be loving, and gentle, and merciful.”

“What if I don’t want that?” Hannibal whispers. 

“You want this to be tender,” Will reminds him, gasping as Hannibal’s hands push away the offending material of his boxers. 

“I want this to be _intimate_ ,” Hannibal growls, wrapping a hand around Will’s member. “I want you to give me everything you are and love me for everything I am.” 

Will’s hips stutter against Hannibal’s touch. “Everything I am includes the anger and love I feel for you.”

Hannibal kisses him softly. “I know.”

“I’m still angry. I’m still pissed at the thought of Alana in your bed. At the thought of being betrayed by you. I’ve… I’ve forgiven you, don’t get me wrong,” Will whispers, almost angrily as they disentangle for a moment to pull down their boxers. “But you are not off the hook,” he hisses as he pounces on Hannibal again.

“I know, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, throwing away Will’s underwear. “I know.”

“You are _mine,_ Hannibal,” Will hisses as the pleasure begins to mount. “Your designs are mine. Your life is mine.”

“As you are _mine,_ ” Hannibal whispers, his voice honey and oozing through Will. “We are the same, now.”

_We always have been._

Will shifts them gently so Hannibal lays on his back, his eyes never leaving Hannibal. Eye contact is held between them, and Hannibal’s gaze seems to caress Will in a heady embrace, cradling him. It’s odd, feeling so comfortable in the eyes of another. Odd, feeling safe in the grasp of a predator. 

“Give me everything, Will,” Hannibal whispers, a hand coming up to touch Will’s cheek lovingly. “Lose yourself in me.”

Will drops his head to kiss Hannibal again, resting his forehead against Hannibal’s as he positions himself in between Hannibal’s legs and wrapping legs around his waist. “Lube?”

Hannibal kisses the corner of his mouth before stretching to the side to open the drawer beside their bed, shuffling through before coming back with a packet of lube. 

Will chuckles against his lips as he leans back down. “Always so prepared.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal muses. “Or eager.”

“Or hopeful,” Will adds, taking the packet from him and holding Hannibal’s erection with his other hand, pumping him slowly and driving Hannibal into pleasure. “You sure you wanna let me do this?”

“I trust you, Will,” Hannibal whispers. “I will give you everything.” 

Will nods before bending down to kiss Hannibal again, using one hand to brace himself against the bed and another to explore the monster underneath his hands. The warm length of flesh which elicits the most delightful gasps, the endearing patch of hair, the strong thighs framing his hips, the dip in the flesh which leads to warmth and a puckered ring. 

“I’ve never done this before,” Will whispers as he circles his finger around Hannibal’s hole. He slowly leans up to better see what the hell he's doing. 

Hannibal hums softly and brings himself to his elbows so he can follow Will up, speaking against his lips. “I know. I’ll guide you.”

Will huffs our half a chuckle. “You’ve always guided me, regardless of whether or not I wanted your guidance.”

Hannibal smirks, bringing a hand to Will’s jaw and caressing it. “I trust you to be loving, if not gentle with me.”

Will quirks his eyebrows as a response before kissing Hannibal lightly on the lips. He tears open the packet of lube, spreading it on the fingers of his right hand, and he returns to the pocket of heat and brushed against the skin there. 

“I trust you,” Hannibal whispers, arching into Will’s nervous touch. 

Will nods, swallows, and pushes one finger gently, then more forcefully, pushing past the first ring of flesh and marveling at the heat of it. He can’t bring himself to look up at Hannibal’s face to gauge his reaction, but the man under him seems relaxed and content, welcoming Will’s touches. He pushes deeper, knuckles grazing across the rim, and Hannibal’s breaths are shallowing. He presses his face against the side of Will’s neck, and he kisses him softly. 

“Move it in and out, slowly,” Hannibal whispers, the words almost a command. 

Will can’t do anything but obey. 

He pulls back the digit, lost in the feeling of the way muscle and flesh move against his finger. The ridges and bumps of one of the most intimate parts of Hannibal. He pushes back in again, still gently and almost shyly, when only the tip of his forefinger remains inside, and then repeats the motion, slowly becoming more daring and quick. 

His lips find Hannibal’s, and they kiss gently as Will discovers him. Hannibal seems content, having a finger up his ass, but Will is a bit terrified of screwing this up. He knows the basics of gay sex - he’s been curious in his younger, more stable years - but it’s different to read about it and to actually do it. The heat and the intimacy of touching someone like this, it’s overwhelming. Making love to women is lust driven. Basic human desire to fuck and make babies. This isn’t that. This is… this is intimate. This is searching desperately for intimacy, for more intimacy, between two killers lost in each other’s minds. 

He adds another finger at Hannibal’s demand, and under his guidance, finds that one spot inside that breaks Hannibal. He curls his fingers as Hannibal commands, searching for something, and when he finds it, Hannibal quivers underneath his touch and Will is lost in the amount of pleasure he sees flashing across Hannibal’s expression. Pure bliss in its basest form. 

“Another,” Hannibal whispers, slamming his mouth back against Will’s, frantically curling his tongue around Will’s. “Now that you know where to touch.”

Will kisses him back with equal vigor, carefully inserting a third finger and crooking them again to find that spot, that special little spot that makes Hannibal lose it. He finds it again, and he grins at the way Hannibal bucks helplessly against his touch. 

“Will,” Hannibal whispers. “Will.” Uttering his name just for the sake of uttering it. Letting the name roll of his tongue in pleasure. 

A hand snakes around to touch Will’s erection, and his movements stutter at the warmth that enfolds him. Hannibal moves his hand steadily, spreading the precome on Will’s length and stroking him with a damning level of control. 

“Fuck,” Will gasps at the touch, his fingers inside Hannibal bucking like his hips.

“Continue, Will,” Hannibal whispers, his voice raspy and thicker with his accent. “Fuck me with your fingers.”

_Oh fuck._

“Stretch me for you,” Hannibal croons, breathing into Will’s ear. “Prepare me, because once you’re properly inside me, I doubt neither of us will have enough control to make this gentle.”

Will moves on and out, albeit unsteadily, and adds more lube to make it easier to slip in and out of Hannibal. 

“That’s it,” Hannibal murmurs, kissing Will again, still pumping his cock in his hand. “You’re doing so well, _mylimasis._ So gentle, so loving. Although I suspect that that will quickly change when you put that impressive cock inside me.”

Will snarls into Hannibal’s mouth, his hips bucking into Hannibal and his hand wet with lube. “If you’re still talking, I’m obviously not doing so well.”

Hannibal smirks and allows a moan to pass his lips. “Then I suggest putting more effort into it.”

_Damn you,_ Will hisses in his mind, pressing every patch of flesh inside except for that one spot. Everywhere but where Hannibal wants. The room is filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, the slick of the lube, and the occasional profanity one of them will utter. After forever and no time at all, Hannibal grabs Will’s wrist and pulls his fingers out, leaving Will’s hand oddly cold. 

“I’m ready for you,” Hannibal whispers heavily, kissing Will while grasping both sides of his head, licking into his mouth. “Give me everything.”

Will shudders and wraps an arm around Hannibal’s waist and using the other hand to line himself up to Hannibal’s flexing hole. He presses the tip against it, not in, not yet, and pauses as he meets Hannibal’s eyes. 

“You’re beautiful,” Will whispers as he pushes in, slowly and not so steadily. His breath hitches at the warm and the tightness, gasping at the way Hannibal holds him. “You’re so beautiful.”

Hannibal kisses him, his own breathing a heavy pant. 

“The darkness,” Will murmurs, pushing in deeper and deeper, losing himself in the heat of it all. “It’s beautiful. You are beautiful.”

“So are you, Will,” Hannibal manages to utter, arching his spine to better allow Will to slip inside of him. 

“I see you,” Will whispers, almost desperately as he finally fully buries himself in Hannibal, his hips pressed flush against Hannibal’s. “I’ve always seen you.”

Hannibal holds him and kisses him. “I know.”

Will pulls out slightly, only to push himself back into the almost suffocating heat. “I need you.”

“And I you,” Hannibal replies immediately. “So, make love to me, Will. Give me everything. Lose yourself in me.”

Will shudders and moans as he pulls out almost all the way, only to slam back inside. “ _Hannibal_.”

Will pulls in and out, in and out, in a steady, broken rhythm, slowly lost in the warmth. 

“You’re quite impressive,” Hannibal notes softly after Will pushes in and grazes his prostate. “Larger than what I’ve taken before.”

“How many have you taken?” Will hisses, suddenly seized  with jealousy at the thought of someone else knowing Hannibal like this.

“Not many,” Hannibal whispers into the column of Will’s glistening throat. “A few. They were all quite disappointing.”

“Are they alive?” Will can’t help but ask.

“Most of them, no,” Hannibal muses. “I ended up disposing of them.”

Wil’’s movements stutter and he can’t help but slam his mouth over Hannibal’s, taking and giving all he can. “You’re mine, _Doctor Lecter_ ,” Will hisses, his hands settled over Hannibal’s chest, exploring skin. “Mine.”

“As you are mine,” Hannibal murmurs, that murmur soon morphing into a quiet, pleased moan. “That’s it, Will. Right there.”

Will pushes in and out, dragging the pleasure through his body and stuttering as he leans over Hannibal:  lips caressing lips. The quiet mixture of soft moans and murmurs of affection and the obscene sound of flesh moving against flesh is a symphony against Hannibal’s ears. A piece of music composed for Will and him, and only for them. 

He reaches an unsteady hand to Will’s face, lost in adoration for the man above him and inside him, in every sense. This is his beautiful boy, finally hatched from the chrysalis, beautiful and unpredictable. He allows himself to let go, to not lose control but to surrender it to Will, stepping into the warmth and the basic pleasures of the flesh. Skin on skin and body inside body, as mind is inside mind. 

The sweat collects on their skin, coating them in a heady, human scent. Will can feel his pleasure building, cooking inside him and inside Hannibal, and he can see that Hannibal feels it as well, whether it’s Will’s pleasure or his own that he feels. With a shaky hand, he wraps his fingers and palm about Hannibal’s length, wet with precome, and moves up and down, marveling in the feeling of another man, another human, a monster in a person suit, just like him. He twists and moves and tugs on Hannibal, earning almost elegant yet debauched moans, and he drinks them in like fine, fine whiskey. 

“Is this intimacy?” Will whispers against Hannibal’s lips. “Is this what you wanted?”

Hannibal kisses him with unsteady lips. “This is the beginning. The beginning of… everything.”

The pleasure then touches the point just before the peak, glancing off of the climax, and suddenly Hannibal is pulling away.

“Hannibal?” Will cannot help the small, frantic whisper, almost _whimper_ that escapes him. 

He watches Hannibal for answers for what feels like forever and never, but his answer is given. Hannibal pushes Will back, over, and practically slams his back against the bed, eliciting a squeak of springs and an unruly slam against the wall. The breath is yanked from Will’s chest, and then stolen once again as Hannibal straddles him begins sinking down onto Will, throwing his head back and throwing moonlight off of his skin. 

Like this, with his eyes watching Will as if Hannibal was the predator and Will his unfortunate prey, Hannibal is the image of sin. Perhaps not Hannibal’s image of it, with pallid demons and marble creatures, but this is how Will imagines it. Hannibal is the Devil, beautiful, oh so beautiful, and emerged in the pleasures of the flesh. The sex and the sin and the death, all a prelude, foreplay, to the climax. 

Will wonders if this makes him a devil worshiper but at this point he cannot give two shits.

Hannibal rises and falls on Will, shamelessly moaning and driving Will insane, baiting him to lose himself even further and just slam _up_ into the warmth of Hannibal’s body. Will isn’t ashamed to say that he takes the bait. 

Driving himself up, in, deep, it’s delightfully base. This is raw, exposed, and there are no illusions here. Hannibal is his. He is Hannibal’s.

“I want you to come inside me,” Hannibal rasps, watching Will intently. 

Will responds with hands digging deeper into Hannibal’s hips and a desperate slam up. 

“That’s it,” Hannibal whispers, head falling forward and hair brushing against Will’s head, adding to the image of… debauchery. “Lose yourself.”

Will feels the last frantic staggers toward climax, and he wraps his arms around Hannibal’s waist, dragging him closer and burying himself in Hannibal with a shudder and hitch of breath. Hannibal falls forward with almost his entire body, leaning against Will and pressing his cheek to the top of Will’s head, turning and kissing it, whispering words of adoration as he feels his own orgasm stumble through him. 

The room reeks of sex and sweat and blood, but Will has never felt more content and… happy. _Endorphins from the sex_ , he tells himself. Kisses from his lips bury themselves on Hannibal’s neck: worshiping skin. 

_I’m yours._

“You were perfect,” Hannibal whispers into the mess of curls. “Beautiful.”

Will chuckles, the sound vibrating in between them, like a purr. He hands knead into Hannibal’s lower back, and he’s very aware of the fact that he’s still inside Hannibal. 

“We should probably shower,” Will whispers into the crook of Hannibal’s neck. 

Hannibal hums and tilts Will’s chin up so their eyes meet. “Not yet,” he whispers. “Let’s just… lay here for a moment.”

Will chuckles again, and Hannibal finds himself utterly fond of the sound. “First let’s actually lay down, then.”

Hannibal smirks, and he allows Will to slip out and maneuver them onto their sides, facing each other. Hannibal pulls Will half onto his chest, his head tucked beneath Hannibal’s chin. 

“So,” Will murmurs, hands fiddling with the hair on Hannibal’s chest. 

“So,” Hannibal echoes, smirking fondly at the curls underneath his chin. 

“We killed a guy,” Will begins, his voice almost sarcastic. “We mutilated him. We came home. And we fucked.”

Hannibal allows himself a quiet laugh, wrapping his arm more tightly around Will’s shoulder. “I’d prefer to call it love making rather than fucking, but to each their own, I guess.”

Will snorts. “Sap.”

Hannibal smiles and kisses the top of Will’s head. “Fucking implies being detached and having no emotional connection to the one who you are fucking. Love making, well, we both know the connotations that holds.”

“Love making usually doesn’t come after murder, Hannibal,” Will mutters, his eyes flickering the blood that their sweat has washed off and the blood that has still cling tightly to their skin. 

Hannibal allows Will’s comment, but says, “It was love making nonetheless.”

“Why are you being so… fond and gentle?” Will whispers. “I was expecting kinkier sex.”

Hannibal laughs at that, the sound loving on Will’s ears. “Because I am happy, Will.” He shifts Will in his arms so they lay beside each other, eyes meeting. “I am-” He brushes a strand of hair from Will’s eyes. “- content.”

Will looks to Hannibal fondly, a small smile on his lips. “We’re finally together. Conjoined.”

Hannibal smiles in agreement and presses a kiss to the top of Will’s forehead, tasting salt on his skin. “I doubt either of us can survive separation.”

“We are the same, now,” Will murmurs, thinking back to the time where he was terrified of becoming like Hannibal. Terrified of the dark. 

Silence fills the space between them, but it’s heavy with skin touching skin and the steady beating of their hearts, all coated in the warmth of their adoration and bliss. The silence, the comfortableness of it, seems to enhance the intimacy between them. There are a thousand unspoken promises woven into the silence around them, promises that once brought Will to his knees in fear. But now, it’s different. This is different. 

They’ve both had their fair share of lovers, but _this_ , this bond, this is different. This was deeper, more meaningful. This is coated in blood and murder and darkness, making them unbearably delighted. 

This isn’t Alana. Or Margot. Or whoever they’ve slept with. This isn’t a game. Maybe once, when Will was an innocent and Hannibal his puppeteer, but not in this moment, as they lay in their sweat and semen. This sweet and playful game has evolved, into lust and power and death, and dear God it’s _addicting._ Dreamlike. 

_It is just a dream, after all._

They clamber out of bed to shower a few minutes into the silence. They move around each other like water, accommodating and graceful. _Like the water that fills his lungs and drenches his skin._ Clothes stained with deep red are collected and tossed into the fire; the ashes will be thrown away in the morning. They showever together, touching and kissing but nothing more. This is enough. This intimacy is enough. 

After cleaning and showering (and kissing), they finally shuffle back into bed with content smiles on their faces as Hannibal pulls Will close against his chest, smiling.  

“This is all I ever wanted for you, Will,” Hannibal whispers against Will’s hair. 

“It’s beautiful,” Will replies, his voice a barely heard murmur against Hannibal’s chest. 

_Beautiful indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeyyyy so I was hoping this would be the most epic chapter besides the chapter where Mischa is confronted, but it didn’t really turn out the way I wanted it to. I’ll be going back and editing it to make it more... Will Graham and less OC vibes. But we’ll see how it’ll go from here.
> 
> I am afraid this is all un-beta read, and it would actually be really cool if one of you guys could help me with that, just to help keep everyone in character. Just comment and I’ll reach out to you. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who is reading this and leaving such lovely comments!!! You guys make my day, seriously.


	5. The Lioness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Will and Hannibal making love unfolds, and the beginnings of Annabelle’s plan come into the light, involving a certain poet...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 13 Nov 2019. (I forgot that Annabelle has a prosthetic leg and needed to make some edits to the scene between Antony and her bc fucking without commenting on the lack of a leg is kinda a big deal.)

“Is Abigail still at Annabelle’s?”

 

A hum sounds from the other side of the kitchen. “They’re having breakfast together.”

 

Will shakes his head and walks over to Hannibal’s side, preparing the coffee. “I never thought Abigail would attach herself so quickly to someone like this.”

 

Hannibal says nothing for a moment, adjusting the eggs in the frying pan before replying. “Abigail recognizes the darkness in Annabelle, and I believe that she finds comfort in it, as well as the illusion of living a normal life.”

 

“How far do you think Annabelle’s darkness goes?” Will murmurs, reaching for a mug.

 

Hannibal smirks. “I was curious about that myself, so I did a small bit of research into Annabelle DuBois.”

 

Will chuckles. “Did you now?”

 

“Annabelle DuBois has been performing for a few years, not too long, but she looked quite different five years ago.”

 

Will glances at Hannibal and the sizzling stove. 

 

“Simply put, the Annabelle DuBois we know today is an imposter of whoever is the real Annabelle DuBois.”

 

Will raises a brow at this, not stopping with his preparations for coffee. He’s not surprised by this, he knew Annabelle - or _not_ Annabelle - had darkness, so she must be hiding something. Whether or not her name is Annabelle DuBois doesn’t matter, though. “Is Abigail safe with her?”

 

“Do you think I would allow Annabelle anywhere near Abigail if Annabelle was dangerous?” Hannibal says slowly, stirring the stove’s contents. 

 

Of course he wouldn’t, but it’s something Will needs to ask. He needs to ensure the safety of his daughter. He isn’t about to lose everything again. _Never again._ “You take risks I don’t always agree with,” Will murmurs, his tone comforting and almost nonchalant. Almost. 

 

“I would never risk her life,” Hannibal says firmly. “She is the teacup I refuse to shatter.”

 

_Ironic, whispers the water in Will’s lungs and the smile on his stomach._

 

Will stays silent, finishing the coffee and ignoring the stare from Hannibal. He can feel those eyes digging into his temple, desperate for the eye contact Will usually grants him. But Will doesn’t turn to look at him, simply pouring his coffee into a mug - not a teacup, because that would be _too_ ironic - and walking away to the living room, where sunlight leaks into the room. 

 

 _She is the teacup I refuse to shatter._ Is she really, though? Hannibal let Will believe that not only was Abigail dead, but that Will himself killed her. So maybe she is the teacup Hannibal refuses to shatter, but is Will safe? Is he destined to be shattered by Hannibal? Broken into a thousand tiny little pieces after the cup that represents him, his mind, has been hurled off a cliff and broken?

 

Let him break. Let him break to protect Abigail. 

 

_Even if it is only in his mind._

 

Hannibal stays in the kitchen - of course he would, it’s not like him to leave his precious creations unattended to - and Will sulks on the couch with only enough room for one person. A quiet and petty little ‘fuck off’ to Hannibal. Will sighs. Maybe he shouldn’t be so petty if he’s living with a killer. They made love again this morning, quietly and softly, still shaking off dreams that plague both of their minds. Or maybe they don’t plague Hannibal’s mind and just Will’s. They made love and filled Will with that overwhelming sense of fondness for Hannibal. He was a teacup overflowing with desire and need for the man that shone light on his darkness, and yet that need disappeared the moment after they showered (again) and headed downstairs. Instead, dread filled him and he couldn’t shake it.

 

Hannibal arrives with a plate in hand - a plate filled with fancy ass omelette and meat - and suddenly Will feels sick.

 

The meat came from their victim last night. 

 

Will shakes his head. No, it didn’t. They didn’t take anything. They didn’t leave evidence. 

 

“Will?” Hannibal whispers, kneeling down after setting the plate on the coffee table besides Will and touching his face with tender fingers. “Abigail is safe, Will. I promise you that. She is safe and will always be safe as long as I am alive, and as long as you are alive. Annabelle won’t touch her.”

 

Will shakes his head. “I know that,” he snaps, although his words are slow and nothing more than a murmur. _Abigail is safe because I will protect her. Protect her by being the lure… only I’m being a fairly crappy lure, aren’t I?_

 

“Then what is it?” Hannibal whispers, brushing the hair out of Will’s eyes. “You are the empath, not I. Sometimes it’s far too easy for you to shut the doors of your mind on me and leave me stranded outside.”

 

“Stop being poetic,” Will mutters, giving Hannibal a glare, although the glare means eye-contact and that seems to delight Hannibal and only frustrate Will more. 

 

“I’m not. It’s the truth,” Hannibal whispers, shifting so he can sit closely next to Will, thigh pressed up against thigh and shoulders touching their eyes still locked. There is a pause which Will keeps silent, silent as he gazes into dark eyes, but Hannibal fills the silence. “Do you regret it?”

 

Does he regret it? The kill? The sex? Running with Hannibal to Florence? _Jumping?_

 

“No,” Will murmurs. He can’t regret it, after all. Not if he wants to keep Abigail alive. He doesn’t regret it. “Are you sure you got all the evidence?” He whispers as he finally looks away.

 

Hannibal’s brows furrow and a small smile plays on his lips, the ghost of a smirk. “Is that what’s troubling you? Being caught?”

 

“Did you get it?” Will repeats, not entertaining Hannibal’s chance to mock him.

 

“Yes,” Hannibal states firmly, no room for argument, his hand inching towards Will’s thigh. “It was a bit sloppy, but they won’t find anything.”

 

Will nods. “Good.” Good indeed. Good that they are away from the law and therefore Abigail is safe.

 

“Will,” Hannibal begins slowly, his hand finally coming to rest on Will’s thigh. “Please don’t torment yourself inside there. With whatever it is that is tormenting you. I don’t want to see you suffer. Let me help you.”

 

 _Like you’ve helped so much in the past, huh?_ Will sighs but the sigh is the beginning of his surrender. He can’t keep out Hannibal. Not when Hannibal already has access to his most intimate parts. Mind and body. “The kill…” 

 

Hannibal silence urges Will on, along with the other hand that comes to rest on his lower back, fingers tracing aimless patterns meant to soothe. Designs.

 

“There was no design,” Will murmurs. “It was some dickhead getting killed and his organs taken. There was no… no _elegance_.” 

 

“And you were desperately trying to grasp for it,” Hannibal confirms. “When you left the lungs.”

 

Will nods. “I wanted to find some sort of meaning in the kill, but there was none. I didn’t even feel the exhilaration of killing him. I killed him, and that’s it. Yeah I learned the basics of how to remove organs. But that’s it. His death meant nothing”

 

“You were the one who initiated the hunt, so I assume that there was a design in your mind prior to the kill,” Hannibal says, hand brushing to the spot in between Will’s shoulder blades. 

 

“There was no design! There was only…” Will trails off, his mind flickering to the butchering of Randall Tier and the satisfaction it had. This didn’t have that satisfaction.

 

“There was a purpose,” Hannibal murmured. “No matter how small, you had chosen to kill him for a reason. Or perhaps it wasn’t him that mattered. Only the fact that there was someone to kill.”

 

Will turns away. 

 

“Why did you need to kill?” Hannibal presses. “It wasn’t for your own satisfaction, not entirely. You slit his throat and that was the end. Your mind was clouded with worry, instead of the clear purpose and righteousness killing is supposed to give you.”

 

There is no answer offered. 

 

“Does it have something to do with what you said?” Hannibal muses, as if to himself. “I think it does. _A hunt is long overdue,_ you said. But you had no desire for the hunt, no true desire. So why hunt at all?”

 

“I thought your narcissistic self would be able to figure that one out,” Will snaps, but his voice is tired.

 

Hannibal pauses at this, cocking his head ever so slightly. “Will. Look at me.”

 

Will refuses and only rolls his eyes. “I’m not a dog-”

 

“Please,” Hannibal whispers, his voice almost desperate. Almost. Because Hannibal is never desperate. He is always… _always_ in control. 

 

Will can’t win this. Not when he finally let himself… Let himself love the man. So he looks. He turns his head ever so slightly and flicks his eyes up to peer at Hannibal through thick lashes meant to seduce. Hannibal’s gaze is calm and tender as he watches the startling blue of Will’s eyes.

 

“You killed for me.”

 

Hannibal doesn’t even have the decency to pose it as a question.

 

“Yes.” Because can Will even deny it? He killed for Hannibal. He gave Hannibal someone to kill. He tried to bring out the beast inside Hannibal, but he failed, didn’t he? He was the one who lost control, not Hannibal. He surrendered, but Hannibal didn’t. “I wanted… _needed_ to see you lose yourself in the kill.”

 

Hannibal presses his forehead to Will’s temple, the gesture comforting and loving. “I don’t lose myself in the kill, Will. Neither are you supposed to.” 

 

Will wants to scoff, but he lets Hannibal continue.

 

“You are supposed to find yourself in the kill. Find clarity and meaning. Find power.” Hannibal smiles suddenly, a small and soft thing, and his eyes find Will’s again. “We promised to lose ourselves in each other, didn’t we? Surrender into whatever this is we are feeling.”

 

“Yes,” Will murmurs. 

 

“You were playing the lure,” Hannibal confirms. “Luring me to my doom, perhaps?”

 

“If I was luring you to your doom you wouldn’t be so smug about it,” Will grunts, giving Hannibal what can only be described as a bitch face.

 

Hannibal smirks. “You have a point. Then perhaps luring me to prevent your own doom?” Will says nothing, and they both know that Hannibal’s words have hit home. “You don’t need to, Will. There is no need for seducing or games anymore. You have me.” A hand comes up to cradle the side of Will’s neck. “I’m yours.”

 

“And I assume that I am yours as well?” Will murmurs, unimpressed on the outside. 

 

“Of course,” Hannibal whispers. “We are conjoined, are we not? Two halves of one whole.”

 

Will groans and thoroughly ruins any mood Hannibal is trying to create. “You are such a drama queen.”

 

Hannibal smiles. “I will never leave you, Will. You have me. I will protect you. There is no need for lures and desperate clutches for control. You have control. All you have to do is clear your head so you can use it.” The last words are punctuated with a soft kiss to the head. “We’re safe.”

 

Will kisses him on the lips, his mouth a bruising force. 

 

The kill was sloppy and desperate, because Will wanted to prove his loyalty to Hannibal. He lost control, if only for a little while. He’s in control now. He’s safe.

 

_You are in control, Will. This is your mind, and your story to tell. This is a world of mended teacups and tender love. This is your retelling._

 

~~~

 

“Do you think my dad will kill me if I stay here longer?” Abigail murmurs, laying in the sun with a book in hand.

 

Annabelle smiles fondly. “Your father would never do such a thing. He might kill me, though.”

 

Abigail snickers. “Maybe. But it’s so nice here…” She rolls over in her chair and closes her book, looking up at Annabelle, who is sketching away in her book. “I like hanging out with you. You’re cool.”

 

“Thank you,” Annabelle says genuinely, her smile almost hurting on her face as she tries to keep it small. “I think the same of you.”

 

“Thanks.” She stretches as she rises from her chair, padding over to where Annabelle sits. “Your drawings remind me of Ha-... of Rafael’s.”

 

Annabelle watches her carefully, squinting her eyes slightly from the sunlight that streaks around Abigail’s face. “I’m sure I am nowhere near as good as him.”

 

Abigail shrugs and takes a seat next to her. “But you’re still good. You draw differently to him. You capture people in your art differently.”

 

“I suppose I do.”

 

Abigail leaves shortly afterwards Hannibal gives them a call, and Annabelle wishes her well with a kiss on both cheeks. 

 

~~~

 

“Ms DuBois, you are truly exquisite,” a voice skilled in the arts of boyish seduction whispers. 

 

A breathy laugh followed with a soft moan. “I could say the same, Mr Dimmonds.”

 

Antony dips a hand down to the curve of Annabelle’s hip and below, chuckling at the shiver that runs through her. “Sensitive, are we?”

 

“Despite how quickly I agreed to sleep with you, I don’t usually do this,” Annabelle says, pushing back against him and tilting her head back to rest on his shoulder. 

 

“I can tell,” he muses, pushing in and out of her with a quiet groan. “You’re so tight around me. You sure you’re not a virgin?”

 

She laughs, the sound vibrating through the pair. “I had a child, so I’m fairly sure I’m not a virgin.”

 

Antony hums and wraps an arm around her ribs to pull her closer. “It’s quite impressive that you’ve stayed this tight, then.”

 

Annabelle snorts but then gasps as Antony drags her back and thumbs at her clit. They move so she sits atop him, facing away but her left hand in his and his right hand pleasuring her. With soft murmurs and touches, he encourages her to ride him, rising and falling. He smiles and moans unashamedly at the feeling, digging his head back into the mattress. 

 

“Truly exquisite, Annabelle.”

 

“For a woman,” she taunts, hair falling across Antony’s face as he kisses her nape, mouthing at the skin there and leaving the faintest of marks.

 

“Whatever are you implying, m’dear?” He hums, snapping his hips for emphasis. 

 

“You usually prefer men, no?” She says coyly, tilting her head back to see Antony’s look of faux shock that soon morphs into a laugh, the sound rumbling through the pair.

 

“I have no preference to who I bring to bed, Ms DuBois. My only requirements are that they are willing, of age, and beautiful.” He grins widely as he flips the two of them so Annabelle lays below him, and he deftly turns her over so they face each other before he continues. “And you happen to fit all three.”

 

“Then why me, if I might ask?” She whispers, curling towards him and granting a small peck on his lips, luring him for more kisses. “Does it somehow arouse you, the fact that I am scarred and missing half a leg?’

 

“You know I don’t care for those things, Annabelle,” he whispers against her cheek, a smile in his voice. “The scars tell me stories, and it's not those which make your body beautiful or ugly - the way you move, the way you breathe and shudder under my touch,” he runs a hand up her thigh to emphasize his point. “That is what is beautiful.”

 

Annabelle scoffs and kisses him gently. “That’s not why you picked me. There’s something else.”

 

He chuckles against her lips. “Is there?” A roll of his hips against hers elicits a soft moan from her throat. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

 

“You spilled coffee all over yourself when we met, when you met my eyes,” she whispers tauntingly, wicked delight in her eyes. “I reminded you of someone, didn’t I?”

 

He groans and buries his face in her neck. “Monster.”

 

She laughs, curling her hands in his hair. “Do tell, Mr Dimmonds. I don’t have all day.”

 

He hums in agreement. “No, I suppose you don’t. Even such a masochist as I would not be able to stand being teased the entire day without an orgasm. I would die a horrible death.”

 

“Perhaps it wouldn’t be so painful,” she muses. “Perhaps it would be blissful.”

 

Antony shrugs slightly before returning his attention to Annabelle’s chest, kissing at the collarbone and lower. “I would rather muse about it all day than find out. I value my orgasms greatly.”

 

Annabelle giggles and gasps softly as Antony kisses down and down her chest, pulling out as he does so. “What are you doing, you devilish man?”

 

“Distracting you and busying my mouth so you never discover why I decided to sleep with you,” he answers promptly, smirking against her skin. 

 

“Is it truly so embarrassing, the reason?” She asks. “Would I be so horribly offended?” 

 

“Perhaps not,” he whispers against her stomach. “But if I must die at your hand, I would prefer being smothered by these beautiful thighs than being strangled. Much sexier.”

 

“Do you want me to tell you why I let myself sleep with you, first, to provide you with comfort?” Annabelle asks, arching into Antony’s mouth and weaving a hand into his hair.

 

He hums. “Do go on.”

 

She smiles and drags over a pillow to lean on before continuing. “You’re willing. Of age. And beautiful.”

 

He whispers a small ‘damn you’ before latching onto her clit and sucking harshly. 

 

“Oh fuck,” she groans, twisting her hand in his hair and dropping her head back like a wilting flower. “You and your damned tongue.”

 

She feels the smirk against her skin as he begins to lap at her folds, his eyes flicking up to hers and winking. Annabelle promptly looks away, eyes focusing on the ceiling and his hair, curling in her hand. He pointed this out about her within the hour they met: she hates eye contact. Refuses to meet his eyes for more than two seconds. He then quickly vowed to bring her to orgasm while staring deeply into the windows of her soul.

 

He pleasures her for a while - she can’t be bothered to measure exactly how long she’s stuck in this blissful cage - his hand rising and falling on her thighs and coming to rest on the stump of her left knee, thumbing at the scars there and dead nerves. It feel strange, for Antony to touch her there, but she’s long grown out of the painful memories her leg brought her. It’s just a leg, or half of it, more of. Eventually, after Annabelle is on the verge of giving up and begging, he raises and kisses up her chest again. 

 

“I picked you because you remind me of someone,” he whispers latching onto her left breast. 

 

“See? Now, why was that so mortifying for you to admit?” She asks, both hands in his hair.

 

“Because,” he says after giving her breast a last kiss. “That someone is a man.”

 

There is a small pause before Annabelle is laughing, all teeth as she grins down at Antony. “And let me guess, you never had the honor of fucking him?”

 

He nods mournfully and buries his head in her neck. “He was _married._ And not to a woman. I could seduce him if he was married to a woman. But he was married to another man, and not just any man, a beautiful creature with dark curls and the ocean trapped in his eyes. I didn’t want to sleep with that man anymore, I wanted to sleep with the man _and_ his god of a husband.”

 

Annabelle pets Antony’s head, comforting his exaggerated little moans of remorse. 

 

“God, I wanted both of them to fuck me. At the same time,” Antony breathes.

 

“You want me to fuck you with a strap-on?” Annabelle murmurs, inching down so his cock brushes against the wetness on her thighs. “Comfort you and allow you to imagine this man to be the one doing it?”

 

“Don’t tempt me,” he hisses before sucking on her jaw, snapping his hips forward and into Annabelle in a fluid, well practiced motion. 

 

“Tell me about the man,” she whispers. “Was he tall?”

 

“A giant,” Antony gasps. “Tall, strong, lean, _blonde_ , and he radiated this aura of… power, I swear. He had such dark eyes, sharp, sharp cheekbones, oh and his _lips…_ God, I need to write some poetry about his lips. Permanently puckered and thin, forming beautiful French in a deep, sultry voice…”

 

“And you wanted him to fuck you?” She whispers, moaning softly at the way Antony’s hips rolled. As much as she hates to admit it, he’s good at this game. At the seduction and the sex and the _talking._ God, some people might hit him for how much he talks.

 

“I wouldn’t mind being fucked by him as I fucked you. It would be the ultimate fantasy, mercy, it really would.”

 

“Care to tell me his name?” Annabelle muses, her voice drawn tight as her orgasm approaches. 

 

“Raphael, although I’m half convinced he was lying to me about his name,” Antony mutters, his voice morphing into vague obscene sounds rather than proper words and sentences. 

 

Antony came first, spilling into the condom before fumbling with a hand to help Annabelle through her own orgasm. After they both sated themselves, they were a heap of sex and sweat and quiet kisses, utterly helpless to do anything else but lay there together. 

 

“What if I told you I knew where this Rafaelis?” Annabelle murmurs after a few moments, minutes, hours of kisses. 

 

Antony laughs and nuzzles against her neck. “I’d probably be ready for round two, if I’m honest.”

 

Annabelle groans as she smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “Are you that thirsty for the man?”

 

“Yes, and I am unashamed of it,” Antony replies instantly. 

 

“Only because you have no shame,” she mutters, slowly detaching herself from his arms. 

 

“You’re not wrong,” he muses as he shuffles away from her and flops onto the side of the bed. “But what is this about knowing where my beautiful Rafaelis?”

 

She’s silent as she rummages for her clothing and prosthetic leg on the floor, pulling on her panties when she can stand. If she tells Antony where Hannibal is, he’d be marked with a timer. His life would have Hannbal’s expiration stamp on it and he would never leave Florence alive.

 

But Antony buys her some time while also acting as a catalyst. He’d die, so Hannabil’s hand would be forced, and Annabelle could reveal herself. Be there to help Hannibal dispose of the body. 

 

“He’s here,” she whispers, almost seductively. “In Florence.”

 

Antony stares at her for a moment before replying. “You’re lying to me. Taunting my fleshly desires.”

 

She merely stares at him.

 

“He’s here?” He whispers, almost in awe, before suddenly clambering out of bed and scrambling towards her with childish glee. “I want to know where he works so I can ‘accidentally’ stumble across him and begin my seduction.”

 

She laughs quietly. “You’re hopeless.”

 

“Not anymore, my dear!” He says, kissing her cheek swiftly as he walks to the kitchen - naked. “I am now hopeful!”

 

~~~

 

It doesn’t take long before Antony finds Hannibal - even if only from very vague clues from Annabelle - and the day he does, he immediately runs back to Annabelle in excitement, grinning ear to ear like a child. 

 

“I assume you found him?” She asks when Antony plops down onto the chair across from her at the little cafe they usually meet. 

 

“That implies that I was looking for him,” Antony begins, still smiling.

 

“You were,” Annabelle needlessly reminds him.

 

“Such a joykill, Annabelle,” he drawls. “No. I didn’t find him. I stumbled across him while wandering close to the river.”

 

“And did you manage to actually speak to him?” Annabelle muses, sipping at her coffee. “Or did you stare like a hopeless girl?”

 

“Oh spare me, darling. I only managed to catch a glimpse of him as he was taking a walk with his husband,” he says, grinning into the rim of his cup. “They weren’t holding hands or doing anything overly fond, but their shoulders were close and Rafael looked at his husband with the most fond expression I have ever seen.”

 

“You’re hopeless,” Annabelle says, but she smiles nonetheless. 

 

“I am _happy_ , darling. Happy.” He grins even wider - somehow - and sighs as he looks to the sky. A sky that is seemingly forever blue and beautiful. “Rafael shall soon be in my clutches once again. Or I in his.” The last part is added as a quiet afterthought, and Annabelle has to agree. Antony is wandering - more of throwing himself - into the lair of a monster that has no intention of letting him go alive. 

 

“When will you seek him out again?” Annabelle asks.

 

Antony’s smile settles down into something a little more subtle, but it’s still there. “I don’t know. Whenever I have the time and energy, I suppose.”

 

“When your hand and I become too unsatisfactory for you?”

 

Antony nearly spits out his drink - Annabelle shamelessly timed her comment - and gives her a falsely horrified expression. “You of all people should know that I have more than you and my hand at my disposal. There’s quite a few things to get through before I have to throw myself at Rafael and Elio.”

 

Annabelle smirks, ignoring the fact that Antony now knows Will’s alias. “Whatever you say, poet.”

 

He gives her a tired eye roll before leaning forward, hands clasped underneath his chin and elbows on the table. “But, since I have so much at my disposal, do you want to help me run my supply dry? Quicken the eventual meeting between Rafael and I?”

 

Annabelle gives him an unimpressed stare, pinning him there as he gives her the most undignified puppy-eyes. “What if I can’t?”

 

He narrows his eyes at her. “Expand.”

 

“Female hormones do run on a cycle, you know. We’re not available all times of the month,” she says innocently, sipping her coffee a moment after.

 

He sighs softly and pins her with a gaze of his own. “We both know your period was a little over a week ago,” he says bluntly. “So, unless your imaginary job calls for you, you’ve got no excuse.”

 

“No excuse for not fucking you?” She says, raising her brows. “And my job is much more real than yours, poet.”

 

He scoffs. “Say what you will, but you can’t run from me, darling.”

 

“But what if I’m not willing? Therefore not fulfilling your requirements?”

 

He groans and throws his head back. “Just let me make love to you, you annoying little minx.”

 

She grins at him, all teeth. “If you insist.”

 

“I have been insisting!” 

 

She throws her head back and laughs, the sound too loud on her ears but it urges Antony into a grin. She looks at him childishly, her chin tucked to her chest and her bottom lip in between her teeth. Antony pokes her with the tip of his shoe, wiggling his eyebrows at her. He truly has no shame.

 

They have sex later that evening, when the sun sets and casts rich shadows throughout the room and across their bodies. Antony moves like youth above her, his laugh and his libido most certainly dripping with youth. She ducks her head at the words he whispers into her skin - foolish promises and playful comments, woven into horrible poetry - clutching at his arms and back as he moved inside and around her.

 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers when the sun has set and his overeager dick finally sated.

 

“Even more beautiful than Rafael?” She whispers in return, and he whacks her arm lightly, no venom involved.

 

“Is it foolish, to lust after such a god like him?” He muses into the darkness, his hand inching towards hers.

 

“Do you believe it is?”

 

He scoffs lightly. “Of course. Sex and lust are usually foolish. Beautiful and amazing, but foolish. It means nothing, usually just a mask for something else.”

 

“A mask for what?” She asks, propping herself onto one elbow and looking at the shadow of his body.

 

“Power. Love. Violence. It varies,” he says. 

 

“What are you masking in your lust for me?” She whispers into his ear, leaning down and tickling his skin with her hair. 

 

He smiles as he looks at her - she can barely pick out the creases in his skin the shadows dip into - and replies, “Nothing. I desired you, and you desired me, so I found no reason as to why we couldn’t enjoy ourselves.”

 

“So simple,” she murmurs. “If only life was like that.” _If only I wasn’t hiding death behind my lust for you._

 

“If only,” he murmurs back, turning his head back to the ceiling. 

 

She pauses in silence, thinking of Hannibal, of the death that follows him, and of Abigail - Mischa. “I can introduce you to Rafael.”

 

He turns his head back to her. “Why would you do that?”

 

 _Because I need Hannibal to kill you_. But she doesn't say that. “Because you desire him, and he could desire you.” Just not in the same way.

 

“He already has a beautiful husband.”

 

She smiles a soft smile, one that hides a certain malice and regret. “Perhaps Rafael would enjoying sharing you with his husband, spread out on their dinner table like a feast. You do know that Rafael cooks?” The last part is added with a cruel glint in her eyes, but Antony mistakes it for something else. 

 

Antony groans and grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. “You will be the death of me, Annabelle.”

 

 _Not quite._ “Maybe. But you are willingly walking into your death, Antony.”

 

He huffs out a laugh. “You have a point.”

 

~~~

 

“Sorry for being late, I was with a friend,” Procel says as she settles in front of her computer screen, watching Alana on the screen.

 

“A friend?” Alana asks, her head tilted ever so slightly to the left and her eyebrows furrowing in worry.

 

“Believe it or not, I can actually have those.”

 

Alana waits for Procel to further explain. 

 

Procel sighs, smiling at Alana’s cold gaze that doesn’t hide the worry in her expression. 

 

“He came across Hannibal in Paris, and so I thought it would be good to get on his side to sneak up on Hannibal,” Procel explains.

 

Alana nods. “Have you found him? Hannibal?”

 

Procel scoffs. “Ye of little faith, Alana. I found him a couple weeks ago.”

 

“And you haven’t said anything?” Alana says, her voice rising slightly higher, inching towards anger.

 

“There was no need to. I met the man, had dinner with him, and now I’m keeping him happy and unsuspecting here.”

 

“... you had dinner with him?” Alana asks, the confusion obvious in her eyes. “Why?”

 

“It would have been rude to decline,” Procel deadpans. “And he didn’t feed me human remains. There hasn’t been a single murder with that amount of butchery involved.”

 

“You have to be careful, Procel. Why didn’t you call Jack when you found Hannibal? Or me?”

 

Procel scoffs. _Because I didn’t want you to find him._ “If I told you or Jack, the hounds would be released recklessly and Hannibal would slip through your fingers again. We need to keep him unsuspecting, and you want to save Will and Abigail. I’m trying to ensure that they will be safe when the time comes to capture Hannibal.”

 

Alana stills and looks down, writing hands that are not seen by the camera. “We can’t keep dragging this out. We have to act quickly.”

 

“We will,” Procel promises. “Just let me lay my traps. Then I’ll call Uncle Jack and Hannibal will be locked up in a padded room, subject to Chilton’s prodding fingers.”

 

Alana seems almost content. “Just… be careful. This is Hannibal Lecter.”

 

Procel smiles. “I know. I’ll be fine.”

 

The call ends shortly after, and Procel collapses on her bed. Tomorrow, she’ll introduce Antony to Hannibal, and then they await his death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve read this far, please leave a comment! Doesn’t matter how nice or long! Just say something so I know that there are people reading this disaster of a fic!


	6. The Lives and Deaths of Lecter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lecter family backstory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! An update? That isn’t after five months? Amazing. I hope ya’ll like this chapter I nearly died writing this, 
> 
> I’m definitely inspired by a whole bunch of other fics that talk about Hannibal’s backstory, but I’ve kinda taken it into my own hands. It’s most definitely severely historically inaccurate. I will face the consequences of my actions.

Hannibal sits at the table, his hand curled around a warm cup of coffee. He stares out the window, watching the sunlight trickle through the city. Will sits in the other room, talking softly with Abigail. What feels like a hundred miles away, Annabelle sits in her own apartment, her own hands clutching the plastic and metal material making her leg. Her eyes are trained on the same sun as Hannibal, remembering what it felt like to burn. Memories flash through their minds, not the same memories, not the same emotions, but they are from the same story. The story of a monster, a devil, a hellish creature. 

 

_ Were you there when he turned from the teat and to the world? _

 

“Hannibal,” Annabelle whispers softly, the sound reaching no one. Simply murmuring his name for the sake of hearing it on her lips. 

 

Hannibal does not whisper a reply - why would he? Instead he thinks on her, on her name, on her life, and on her death.

 

_ How did your sister taste? _

 

_ Like the sweetest nectar from hell,  _ he thinks to himself, taking a sip of his coffee and smiling at Will who settles next to him, thigh pressed flush against Hannibal’s, and a smile of his own on his lips. 

 

~~~

 

_ Some time ago. _

 

Mischa launches herself down the hallway, her small feet whispering against the carpet. Mother and father are sleeping, and the nanny is on the other side of the estate. No one can hear her run down the hall, not even the dogs. Thunder crashes above the ceiling, hammering into her ears and she staggers in the hallway, holding her hands over her ears in a desperate attempt to silence the noise.

 

She bursts into a room, the heavy door groaning under her weight and she falls onto the carpeted floor. 

 

“Hannibal!” She whispers loudly. 

 

A small head lifts itself off the pillow, intelligent eyes watching Mischa on the floor. 

 

“Mischa?”

 

She whimpers softly as another strike of thunder bursts over their heads, and she promptly throws herself into Hannibal’s arms the moment he opens them for her. She burrows deeper into his nest of blankets, snuggling into the warmth it holds. His arms loop around her, tucking her head beneath his chin as he whispers comforting words to her.

 

“Your safe, Mischa. I’ve got you.” His voice is young but it carries so much weight, burying itself into Mischa’s bones. 

 

She can only nod. 

 

Thunder crackles through the clouds, lightning sparkling across the sky and illuminating golden curls and deep maroon eyes. She shudders with each sound, but the arms around her make her feel secure, safe from the flashes of lightning. Safe as she will ever be.

 

“Hannibal?” She whispers, arching her head up to look at him. 

 

“Yes?”

 

Her hands are clutching to his shirt, wrinkling the fabric and staining them with the sweat from her palms. He’s looking at her with expecting eyes, waiting for the words that are trying to force themselves through Mischa’s throat.

 

“What happens when I grow up?” She mutters, burrowing into his chest again. She’s six, right now, but what happens when she turns eight and her parents demand her to grow up? When the lighting should do no more to scare her than their hounds?

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You know… when I’m too old to be scared of thunderstorms.” 

 

He chuckles softly against her, his cheek on her head. He understands her thoughts immediately, kissing the top of her head. “You can still come to me, when you’re scared.”

 

“Even when I’m bigger?” She asks softly, her eyes screwed shut against her brother’s shirt.

 

“Forever, Mischa,” he whispers, petting her hair and moving it away from her round cheeks. “I will always be here to protect you, no matter what.” The promise goes deeper than his little Mischa can realize. 

 

She nods hurriedly and shifts in his arms, curling against his chest and relaxing herself in the warmth of her brother.

 

“Love you, Hannibal,” she murmurs before committing herself to sleep.

 

“I love you too, Mischa.”

 

~~~

  
  


Mother and father refuse to tell Mischa anything about the chaos outside their home. They tell Hannibal in hushed whispers and cold instructions, but never Mischa.  _ She’s too young,  _ they would say.  _ She wouldn’t understand.  _

 

“Will you tell me, Hannibal?” Mischa asks one night, when the thunder screams outside the windows again, and her body enveloped in Hannibal’s warmth.

 

“About why mother and father are so worried?”

 

She nods. 

 

He sighs and holds her a little tighter. “Why do you want to know?”

 

“I feel so helpless,” she admits. “I want to help, I want to know things, I’m not that little.” She’s eight now, and even if her parents have now demanded her to act less childish and more like her brother, she still runs to him every time the thunder booms.

 

“How could you help?” Hannibal whispers, brushing blonde curls out of Mischa’s eyes. “You are still young, and even if you knew, what could you do?”

 

She fidgets and squirms in his arms. “I don’t know, but I could do something! I could try to help move everything in the house, and hide all of mother’s jewelry. I heard you guys talking about that…”

 

He laughs quietly, the thunder echoing it. The shadows hide his face, but Mischa isn’t scared. Not of Hannibal. Hannibal is safe. 

 

“You are helping,” he says slowly, kindly. “Mother and father are worrying so much over everything, and so by not worrying, you’re bringing more happiness into their lives.”

 

She snorts and pokes at his chest. “But I can do more!”

 

“You don’t need to,” he says, almost sternly. Mischa silences herself immediately. “I told you that I am always here for you, I will always protect you. We are protecting you. You don’t need to know, because I will take care of things for you. Nothing is going to happen to you. It would be pointless worrying about things that would never occur.”

 

She pouts and turns her face to the pillow. “It’s not fair.” Her words are muffled by the pillow. “Even Chiyoh knows more than me. And she’s a servant!”

 

“She’s older,” Hannibal reminds her.

 

“Pft, don’t act like you’re so much older, Hannibal.” She glares at him, her own glare echoed by a flash of white across the room. “You’re only ten.”

 

He smiles, his crooked teeth almost shimmering in the night. “Two whole years older than you, Mischa.”

 

“Still not fair.”

 

Mischa eventually finds out that it’s a war, outside the estate. People - she can’t even find out which people - are fighting, and there’s so many of them. Another country is trying to take over their country, and people are becoming scared. Hannibal tells her that she cannot be scared, because enough people are already terrified.

 

“But why are they scared?” She asks. “What could happen?”

 

Hannibal’s eyes darken. “Bad things, Mischa. They could hurt you.”

 

She looks down, still confused. Her brother’s answer wasn’t much of an answer, because if bad things could happen, then she should be worried. 

 

“But you want me to not be scared? If people are out there, hurting other people, then that means they could hurt us! They could hurt you!” She almost yells, stomping her foot on the ground and glaring at Hannibal. 

 

“They have every reason to be scared,” Hannibal whispers lowly, looking down at the ground next to Mischa’s feet. “They aren’t safe.”

 

She sputters and opens her mouth to speak, but Hannibal cuts her off sharply. “You are safe.”

 

Mischa can only gawk at him as her brain works through the scenarios - the only ones she could know at this age. “Is it because we live in the estate? Because we have mother and father to protect us?”

 

“No,” Hannibal says too calmly. “It’s because you have me.”

 

She feels touched, protected and safe - like the thunderous nights she spends encased in Hannibal’s warmth and love - but then suddenly confused. “You’re… you’re still a kid, though! You’re a little older, but not by much. Mother and father can’t do anything with the people fighting, so how come you can do something?”

 

“I never said I could do anything to stop the fighting,” Hannibal says. “I said I can protect you. I can’t protect everyone - I don’t want to - but I can protect you. Nothing - no one, will hurt you, Mischa.” His eyes are hard, and Mischa suddenly understands why some of the adults are scared of Hannibal. His eyes look like the eyes of a grown up. Cold, intelligent, and strong. Too strong.

 

“Will you protect mother and father?” She asks quietly, realizing her hands are shaking. 

 

Hannibal catches the small movements in her hands at the same time she does, and he brings her to his chest, holding her tightly. His hands run up and down her back, tracing the bones of her spine. 

 

“I can’t protect them,” he whispers into her hair. “I can’t. So I won’t. If something happens, I can only protect you.”

 

“Then who will protect them?” Her voice feels small and weak. She feels so small in Hannibal’s arms.

 

There is a pause. 

 

“They will protect each other,” Hannibal says eventually. 

 

Why do the words feel like a lie?

 

Mischa knows that her brother is dangerous. She knows why the adults in the house are either terrified or caring of her brother. He sees so much, and watches people with dark eyes - almost red, like a vampire - and seems to be in control of everything. He won’t interact with people he doesn’t like - something Mischa is better with, handling other people and getting them to like her - and he refuses to bow down to others. Normally, you’d expect father to smack some sense into him, but even father was scared of Hannibal. Hannibal knew what he was doing, knew the consequences, and still doesn’t care. 

 

Hannibal was scary. 

 

He had cut up one of the hounds when he was younger - Mischa barely remembered the incident other than the red that was everywhere - claiming to want to know how it worked. What its heart felt like when it beat. 

 

He has a garden full of snails, for the fireflies to feed on. In the darkness, when the the sky was calm and Hannibal’s warmth around her, the garden was beautiful. Soft, golden lights flickers around the fountain and the trees, and she felt like she was in a fairytale. But in the day, when the sun revealed the mountain of snails crawling about and the carcasses of their half eaten bodies, Mischa was horrified. Hannibal was curious and almost delighted by the garden, night and day, carefully tending to it.

 

So why isn’t Mischa scared? 

 

She’s scared of his actions, of what he could do to others, what he  _ did  _ do to others, but she never feels in danger around Hannibal. Hannibal will protect her. He will not let anything harm her. Nothing will hurt her. 

 

Hannibal loves her.

 

~~~

 

The estate is slowly eaten away. 

 

The paintings go first, then the jewelry. Cloths follow, along with carpets, couches, tapestry, dresses, servants, horses, hounds, curtains, blankets, all of it goes. Most of it is given to the other members of the village, and the rest to the strange men on the doorstep.

 

Hannibal is furious. He says that they shouldn’t care about the villagers, and certainly not the men at the door. He says that they made this wealth for themselves, that the others didn’t deserve it, and for the first time in years - perhaps in Mischa’s memory - father yells at Hannibal. He yells, barking cruel words at Hannibal, and for the first time in Mischa’s memory, Hannibal has nothing to say in return. Usually, even if he didn’t speak, Mischa could see that twinkle in his eyes that revealed his clever words hiding inside his skull. But this time, there was no twinkle, there was no smirk, no laugh, no cry, no demand, nothing. Hannibal simply looks at his father, then turns and walks away. Father yells at him to come back, to answer, to apologize for his actions, but Hannibal keeps walking. 

 

Mischa follows as soon as her father is out of sight, her quickly growing legs sprinting after her brother.

 

“Hannibal!” She shouts, bursting into his room, the door groaning under her hands. Hannibal isn’t in his room, the cold light seeping in and casting pale shadows on the floor. 

 

She turns away, running down the hall to the study. To the library. To the kitchen. The garden. The pond. The snail garden. Nothing. She stands in the middle of their grounds, panting, her lungs heaving under her ribs as she fights for air. She thinks and thinks for where Hannibal could be, her mind snarling with an intelligence she rarely reveals or relies on. Her thoughts wander through the halls of their home - not the empty carcass it is now, but what it once was, when it was filled with warmth and the smiles of her brother. Her thoughts take her through the gardens and into the forest, following a narrow trail to the river. 

 

Her footsteps follow her mind’s path, leading her down a narrow and twisting path through the woods. The gnarled roots rise and fall under her feet, and the woods welcome her with open arms and wide claws. She shivers in fear - fear of the unknown, of the dangers that lurk within the forest, but her brother is within these woods. He is one of the creatures hiding in the darkness. 

 

She doesn’t like this section of the forest. She never has. It’s filled with too much darkness and crooked smiles on the trunks of trees, and she can’t find comfort in the trees’ embrace. The air turns cold around her, and she thinks back to the monster Hannibal would tell her about in the dead of night. The wendigo creeps into her mind, blood running down its thin lips and the black skin stretching over protruding bones.

 

_ Are you scared?  _

 

She keeps pushing forward through the woods, daring to call out for Hannibal. He always follows the same path, saying that he has no need to explore the woods. Merely to stand within it.

 

_ Are you scared of the wendigo lurking in the shadows? _

 

Mischa shakes her head at the voice, and pushes forward. She’s here for Hannibal. The monsters around her, they will not harm her. She is not their prey. She is under Hannibal’s protection. 

 

“Hannibal!” She calls again, wrapping her arms around herself. “Hannibal, come out, please!”

 

Silence responds. 

 

“Hannibal!” She shouts, the word burning her throat. Tears rise in her eyes as the horror fills her.

 

_ What if he ran away? What if he was so done with the soldiers and the empty house that he left? That he ran away in a fit of anger, searching for calm, and never returning? What if he did return? Return only to find you and mother and father dead in the ice, their blood red against the snow? _

 

Her world is slowly turning to dust, with all this fighting. Her home is being eaten alive, carved of all the things that made it her home. The warmth of the carpets and the smiles of the paintings, they are all being torn away. Mother and father rarely have time to even look at Hannibal and her, and all of the servants in the house disappeared and abandoned them as well. Even Chiyoh left to live with one of Mischa’s aunts. The only thing she has left is Hannibal. 

 

_ Would he leave you? Save his own skin? _

 

She stumbles along the path, the darkness suffocating her. He has always been there for her, but then again, so has the rest of her home. What if this war took away Hannibal as well? What if he got so mad that he left her? That he couldn’t take it anymore and ran away to the forest, living off of the animals in the woods?

 

“Hannibal!” Her voice is older, more desperate, more wounded. The darkness is not Mischa’s friend, but neither is it her enemy. She walks along the path with fear in her heart, but it is not of the shadows lurking behind crooked trees and the soft chittering of animals. It is of being abandoned by the most dangerous creature in these woods. Being abandoned by Hannibal.

 

 But suddenly, he’s there, standing and waiting for her.

 

_ He wouldn’t leave you. Never you.  _

 

He’s standing in the middle of the path, his hands fists at his sides as he lifts his head to the canopy of the woods. She sees his chest rising and falling, and the way the darkness welcomes him.

 

“Hannibal?” She whispers, stopping as well, looking at him and restraining the arm that longs to reach out for him. 

 

_ I want you to know exactly where I am. That way, you can always find me.  _

 

He turns, eyes finding her. Wordlessly, he reaches his hand out.

 

_ Come to me, Mischa.  _

 

She runs forward, slamming into his chest as her own stutters for air.

 

“Don’t do that!” She yells into his shirt, her voice muffled by the fabric. “Don’t leave me!”

 

He is silent for a moment as his arms wrap around her slowly, holding her tightly against his chest.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, as if realizing the desperation in Mischa’s voice. “I won’t do it again.”

 

“If you’re going to run,” she whispers angrily, her tears staining his shirt. “Run away with me. Take me with you. Don’t leave me.”

 

He kisses the top of her head. “I won’t leave you, Mischa,” he whispers. “You shall never part from me.”

 

She sobs into his shirt, clutching desperately onto him. “You can’t leave me. Not like Chiyoh, not like mother, not like father, not like the nanny, not like anything else in our life! You cannot leave me!”

 

He holds her tighter. “I will never leave you, Mischa,” he whispers kindly into her hair. “I’m sorry that I scared you. I merely needed to clear my head.”

 

“Well then tell me that!” She snaps into his chest, refusing to meet his eyes. “Don’t just run away without saying anything!”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I won’t do it again.”

 

He holds her for a while, hands petting her head gently, like placating a startled animal. Her breathing becomes slower as she matches his, her heartbeat steadying. The darkness looms around them, but it is no danger to either of them. Hannibal is in control here. And Mischa is his to protect.

 

~~~

 

“One day, when the fighting stops, I’ll give you everything,” Hannibal whispers into Mischa’s hair one night, a week after the incident in the forest. The estate has only become barer, but they can do nothing. Mischa sleeps with Hannibal regularly, now, the beds so much more comforting when there is a body to share heat with. 

 

She eyes him in the darkness, watching his twinkling eyes. “Everything?”

 

“Everything,” he confirms. “I will give you riches, jewels, dresses made of the finest silk. You will witness the opera weekly as you dine with the richest people of the city, sipping champagne from a flute.” His hands rest on her back, between her shoulder blades. “Your house will be made of stone but adorned with thick carpets and furs, a roaring fireplace amidst the room. The windows will stretch to the ceiling, taller than five men standing on each other’s shoulders.”

 

“We used to have that,” Mischa whispers quietly.

 

Hannibal nods. “And you will have it again. I promise you.”

 

She smiles. “Okay.”

 

_ Did you keep it, truly, Hannibal? Did you give her everything you said you would?  _

 

~~~

 

Mother falls ill. Her coughs fill the hallways - dry, heaving things that are filled with cruelty. Mischa doesn’t see the blood, but Hannibal does. He sees the redness in the napkins and the redness on the bedsheets and the redness on the floor. He knows his mother is dying. She is withering away and there is nothing anyone can do. Medicine cannot come to the rescue, not when the medicine is days away and no one dares travel that far anymore. Not for something as simple as medicine. 

 

Mischa is worried for her mother, Hannibal can see that. Her small hands bunch the cloths of her skirt into wrinkles, her eyes heavy and sad when she hears mother coughing. Hannibal doesn’t try to tell her that mother will get better, that it will pass, that things will get better. Things are getting worse and they aren’t going to get better. Mother’s death… it’s only a matter of time. Everyone’s death is only a matter of time. Hannibal wonders if he should save his mother in the only way he knows how. Ending the pain. Saving her from this cruel world and granting her peace and quiet.

 

He lets the sickness consume her slowly.

 

She is sick, and she is weak. It’s not his fault this is how it is. He can’t kill mother without father finding out, and only more problems would arise if a murder occurred within their home. So he lets his mother burn slowly, from the inside out. Her coughs fall flat on his ears, and he focuses on what little study he can do and helping his father. The days are filled with work, and the nights are filled with Mischa’s warmth. 

 

In the twilight moments, he’s there, in the corner of his mother’s room, watching the blood fall from her lips. The redness coating her chin and the dried flakes of life on her fingers. She looks like she’s in pain, terrible pain, and Hannibal wonders what it feels like. Knives against her throat, perhaps? Sand in her lungs? 

 

He wonders how long she will continue to cling onto life. How long her body will disobey her mind’s wishes. She wants to die, Hannibal can see it. She doesn't want to keep living like this. What’s the point? She’s not there for her children, her husband, or some other lover. Life has nothing to offer her, and death must look so appealing. 

 

“Just die already,” he whispers under his breath one day, when she is sleeping fitfully but deeply. She won’t hear him. “Just die.” The words feel strange on his tongue, but he likes the way it makes him feel. Powerful. Above her. He won’t mourn when she’s gone. What has she ever done for Hannibal other than bringing him into this hell?

 

Mischa will mourn. She will cry, scream into his chest, and ask why mother had to die. Hannibal will hold her, tell her that mother is free from the pain now, and that the world will keep moving. Mischa will cry, but she will see reason.

 

Mother dies a month after she gets sick, and Mischa cries. Father mourns quietly, but Hannibal knows that he’s relieved. One less mouth to feed.

 

Hannibal doesn’t bother looking at the corpse of his mother. 

 

~~~

 

“Mischa,” Hannibal whispers one night, another night, a night long after the death of their mother. He’s standing over the bed, shaking his sister awake.

 

“Hannibal?” She murmurs, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “What’s going on?”

 

He shakes his head. “You have to wake up. Put on some warm clothes. Quickly.”

 

She shakes as she gets out of bed, her muscles quivering as she stretches. “What’s going on?” She repeats. “What time is it?”

 

“Early,” Hannibal murmurs in reply, bringing Mischa her shoes. “Quickly. Put them on.” 

 

She slides on trousers and her shirt, layering up with a sweater and jacket while fumbling to put her feet through her socks. “Is father awake?” She asks.

 

Hannibal stills for a moment, a fleeting moment that Mischa doesn't notice, and then continues. “No. But we must go.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I will explain as we leave.”

 

Mishca pouts and stares at Hannibal. “You better.”

 

“I will. I promise.”

 

Clothes are practically thrown onto Mischa, and she feels like a walking closet by the time Hannibal deems her ready for travel. He gives her a small bag which she slings over her shoulder, and after he dons a much larger, heavier bag, he takes her hand and leads her through the house. They walk quickly and silently through their home, the halls cold and unwelcoming in the darkness, but Mischa wills herself to not be scared. She is with Hannibal. She is safe. There are no monsters which can harm her here.

 

Hannibal leads them out of the building, shutting the heavy wooden doors behind them.

 

“Hannibal?” Mischa whispers, her voice barely rising above the wind. “Where are we going?’

 

“Away,” Hannibal angers simply. “We cannot stay here.” With those words, her takes her hand and pulls her roughly from the door.

 

Mischa yanks her hand from Hannibal’s and plants her feet firmly in place. “But what about father?” She demands. “Are we leaving him?”

 

Hannibal’s face shows no emotion. “He’s dead, Mischa.”

 

She stares at him. The words reach her mind but they don’t seem to touch to heart. Or maybe her heart canno’t process it. “What?” She whispers. “What do you mean he’s—”

 

“He’s dead, Mischa,” Hannibal repeats. “I meant exactly what I said.”

 

She continues to stare at him, her eyes prickling from the cold wind. “But he wasn’t sick,” she whispers. “He wasn’t sick like mother.”

 

Hannibal sighs. “No, he wasn’t.”

 

“So what happened?” She demands, her voice growing angry. It’s unlike Hannibal to not explain things. To not just tell her the blunt truth. Why is he hiding answers? Why won’t he answer?

 

“He was killed, Mischa,” Hannibal snaps, bitterness entering his tone. “Men came in the dead of the night and they killed him and stole everything. The only reason why they didn’t kill us because they thought father lived alone in the remains of his wealth.”

 

Mischa takes a step backwards, a step towards her home and the body of her father. 

 

“We’re leaving so the men do not come back to discover us and kill us.”

 

“Did you see the men?” Mischa asks, her hands clutched together at her chest, her voice small. 

 

“Yes,” Hannibal says. 

 

They are both silent for a few moments as Mischa takes in the information. As her mind tries to picture the body of their father. How did they do it? Did they slit his throat? Stab his chest? Strangle him? Behead him? Bleed him to death? Bash his head in? What did Hannibal do? Did he see them kill father? Did he see the blood on their hands? Did he try to stop them? Was he scared?

 

_ Hannibal wouldn’t be scared.  _

 

“What did you do?” She whispers, her eyes on the floor, on the stone, on the snow covering the snow.

 

Hannibal is silent.

 

“What did you do? When you saw…” when you say the corpse of our father?

 

He still doesn’t speak.

 

“Did you fight them?” She whispers. She can see it, Hannibal lurking in the dark corners as he watches them kill father. As he watches the blood spill from father’s lips. He would lurk there, wait for a moment, the right moment, and then he would pounce. 

 

_ Did you kill them? _

 

“Fight seems like an improper way to describe what happened,” Hannibal says quietly, not shyly, but softly, as if he was trying to be kind to Mischa and lessen the blow.

 

“Did you kill them?” She whispers. She refuses to meet her brother’s eyes, the gaze which she can feel burning her skin.

 

“Yes.”

 

A sharp laugh breaks out of her throat, bubbling out like a choke. 

 

Blood on his hands, on his lips, on his shirt. Bloodlust in his eyes, in his voice, in his heart.

 

_ Good. _

 

But is it his blood on his hands, on his lips, on his shirt? Or is it theirs?

 

“Are you hurt?” She whispers, her frame shaking. 

 

Hannibal seems to be suprised by her question, because he pauses before answering her. 

 

“No. They nicked my throat but it’s shallow.”

 

She nods. 

 

Hannibal stretches out a hand, and she takes it, and lets him lead her away. 

 

~~~

 

They travel quite quickly, and Hannibal leads them to where Chiyoh was sent. An aunt, a distant friend, a distant family member. The snow is cold on their skin and kisses them with blue lips, but Hannibal moves them quickly. He takes Mischa’s bag when she tires, and pulls her along when her feet tire. She’s never walked so much in her entire life. Hannibal sometimes manages to get a ride on the back of a wagon - never a car - but it’s rare. They sleep in the woods, in a kind stranger’s house, in a barn, anywhere. Hannibal brought the small sum of wealth left in the house - mostly the jewelry father couldn’t bear to sell - and it helps them buy food and a warm place to sleep. 

 

Mischa falls ill two weeks into traveling. 

 

Hannibal makes her walk through the coughing and the snot running down her nose, giving her handkerchiefs to clean herself, but it only gets worse. The sickness drags the strength out of Mischa, and it burns in her bones to move. Hannibal is forced to stop when Mischa faints. 

 

He finds them a small lodge shared with various travelers, and there is not much privacy, but there is warmth and some food. He tucks Mischa into the warmest corner in the room, gives her all of his food, and bargains with others with the small amount of money he has left. 

 

It’s all pointless in the end. 

 

Mischa doesn’t get better, and if anything, she gets worse. Blood taints the handkerchiefs Hannibal gives her, and her round cheeks have hollowed out. For the first time in years, Hannibal cries. As Mischa clings to life, death clings to her bones. He does what he can, what he could, what he could think of. But what can he do? She won’t get better. She won’t heal unless a doctor, a proper doctor, treats her. 

 

Hannibal itches with the need to hurt someone. To witness blood that doesn’t being to his sister.

 

The opportunity arises in all of the wrong ways.

 

~~~

 

At some point, Mischa falls into a trance of pain and blood and agony. She doesn’t know how long she stays in this trance. She feels brief touches of warmth against her cheeks and forehead, a soft voice against in her ear. She remembers whispering Hannibal’s name, the word scratching her throat and coaxing blood past her lips. Warmth fills her mouth when she coughs and when she drinks and eats, and after so long, she starts being unable to recognize which is which. Is it blood or is it food? Life or death? 

 

At some point in her trance, the screaming starts. 

 

Voices, horrible voices, reach her ears and suddenly pain fills her. She has been living with pain in her lungs and bones, but this was different. This was the burn of her skin breaking, her muscles breaking, her bones splitting. She probably screamed, forcing sound through her ragged throat and blood flecking the air. 

 

The pain didn’t stop.

 

~~~

 

Somehow, Chiyoh finds him. 

 

She finds him sitting in the snow, bundled in blankets, and watching a man gasp for life. He’s tied to the tree, his companions dead around him. The blood is black against the snow and in the moonlight. A deep gash is imbedded into his chest, and a bloody knife is beside Hannibal.

 

Amongst the bodies is a child’s remains.

 

“Hannibal?” Chiyoh whispers as she falls next to him. “Hannibal, what happened?”

 

He looks at her slowly, his eyes holding no emotion. Blood is on his lips and cheeks. Without a word, her points to the man tied to the tree.

 

Chiyoh watches the man shiver in the snow. “Where’s Mischa?” She asks quietly. 

 

Hannibal doesn’t bother responding, his hand falling. 

 

“Hannibal,” Chiyoh whispers. “Where’s Mischa?”

 

Hannibal gives her another dead look. “Ask him,” he whispers, his voice coarse and dead as his eyes.

 

She looks at the man tied to the tree and walks over to him, squatting in front of him. “There was a little girl with the boy. Where is she?”

 

The man laughs, blood flying from his lips. Blood is on his teeth. “She’s gone, Missy! She’s gone, gone, gone.”

 

Chiyoh slaps the man, leaving him coughing and gasping for air. “What happened to her?”

 

The man laughs again, his eyes sending shivers down Chiyoh’s spine. “There wasn’t anything left to eat,” he says, cackling. “She didn’t have much meat on her bones, but she—”

 

Chiyoh kicks the man in the groin. He groans but laughs. She kicks him again. And again. And again. Again and again and again until the man is whining in pain and his smile is gone. 

 

“You disgust me,” she whispers, backing away from the man. “I hope hell isn’t kind to you.”

 

The man laughs again, and she kicks his head.

 

“Ask the boy how she tasted,” he whispers before he slips unconscious. 

 

~~~

 

When Mischa wakes from her trance, the first thing she feels is water against her skin. The water is warm and gentle against her skin, and she relaxes against its touch. 

 

The next thing she feels is pain.

 

There is the dull ache of her bones, the sharp burn in her throat, and the harsh touch of air on her flesh. Her legs have taken the brunt of the pain, but her stomach is laced with what feels like hot wires, and her head is filled with endless throbbing. 

 

_ Hannibal. _

 

The word will not pass her lips, but it whispers itself in her mind.

 

_ Hannibal. Hannibal, where are you? _

 

“You’re awake, aren’t you?” A soft voice says next to her, a woman’s voice.

 

Mischa realizes that her eyes are not open, and she wills them to open and look around her. The lids flicker and tremble agasint her eyes, and after a few moments, they peel back enough for her to glimpse the light. It filters through the air and reveals the dust floating around her.

 

“Don’t try to open your eyes if they hurt,” the voice says kindly. “You need your rest.”

 

Mischa gives up when the light proves to be too much for her, and she opens her mouth instead.

 

“Don’t speak,” the voice warns, kind but firm, like a mother. “Your throat took a lot of damage, and I want you to drink something before you try to talk. I don’t want you undoing all of the doctor’s work.”

 

Did Hannibal get her to a doctor, then? She was sick, wasn’t she? Is she at a hospital? Where’s Hannibal?

 

She opens her mouth again, kind doctor lady be damned. “‘anniba—”

 

“Shh,” the woman soothes, closing a gentle hand over Mischa’s mouth. “Don’t speak. All of your questions will be answered later, when you have strength.”

 

Mischa weakly nods and the hand removes itself.

 

“Hannibal,” she whispers quickly, the name burning her throat but it passes her lips, so she smiles once the word is out.

 

The woman sighs. “You’re stubborn. That will prove to be good and bad.”

 

Mischa pries her eyes open and finds the woman with her eyes, trying to convey her question with her quivering gaze. The woman has light brown hair pulled back into a tight bun, and her lips are thin. She’s around 40 years old. 

 

Mischa’s eyes close again, briefly, before dragging them open and staring at the woman again. The woman meets her gaze and seems to understand the pain that must be in Mischa’s eyes. 

 

“Hannibal isn’t here, Mischa,” the woman says quietly as Mishca’s eyes close again. 

 

A soft whine escapes Mischa.

 

“I don’t know where he is,” the woman continues. “And you can’t worry about that, right now. You need to heal. Please rests.”

 

Mischa opens her eyes one last time, watching the woman.

 

“My name is Ieva.”

 

Ieva was one of the Lecter servants, Mishca learns later. She was Hannibal’s nurse before Mischa was born, but her job was transferred to another when she injured her leg. She served as one of the cooks, usually staying out of the way, hence why Mischa didn’t recognize her. She was reluctantly fired fairly early in the war, and has been working in an orphanage ever since. Mischa’s currently staying at the orphanage. 

 

Ieva found Mischa half dead on the side of the road, her left leg gone after just above the knee, and her right calf and thighs severely butchered. Her stomach had been carved into, but not as severely as her legs. Recognising her, she brought Mischa to the orphanage and managed to find a doctor willing to treat her. Mischa has been at the orphanage for three weeks, and her legs are still healing. She might not be able to stand again. 

 

Ieva went out looking for Hannibal, but she never found him. She even dared venture to the Aunt Hannibal and Mischa were looking for, but she was gone to another country and the servants heard nothing of Hannibal. 

 

“You have to accept that he’s gone, Mischa,” Ieva told her when she came back from talking to the aunt. “The winter is harsh and the people are harsher.”

 

“Hannibal won’t die that easily,” Mishca spat back out. “He’s out there. Somewhere.”

 

Mischa finds a photograph of Hannibal, from Ieva, and it becomes her most prized possession. She begins to draw Hannibal, practicing with the photo and trying to recreate the memories in her mind. The other children in the orphanage are delighted by her drawings, and soon she’s drawing everyone around her. The smallest children are content to simply watch her draw; the older ones demanding a portrait of themselves, like rich dukes and duchesses having their portraits taken. Mischa is happy to indulge them. 

 

~~~

 

Hannibal leaves the country as soon as his studies allow him to. He travels to Florence, and he stays there. The city is rich with the history of blood and music and art, and he delights in it as he tastes the city on his tongue and touches it with his pencil. He finds La Primavera buried inside the museum, and it captivates him immediately. The touch of color and the curve of the bodies, they were beautiful. He recreates it a thousand times in his journal, sketching the flowers and soft skin with a pencil, but soon, it isn’t enough. It isn’t enough to sit there, in front of the painting, for hours, and recreate a masterpiece with nothing more than his humble pencil and paper. 

 

A man, a policeman, notices him and praises his mockery of a masterpiece. Hannibal notices the pride and intelligence in the policeman. 

 

It’s not enough, to recreate that beauty on paper. Hannibal is knowledgeable in the human body, he’s studied it at school and at home and he’s intimate with the sound of bones breaking under his hands. But none of the blood on his hands has ever been art. It’s always been destruction, Thanatos, Nyx, Eris. Never Eros. It’s never been  _ intimate _ .

 

_ “One day, when the fighting stops, I’ll give you everything.” _

 

_ “Ask the boy how she tasted.” _

 

It’s never been art. 

 

He makes it art, a masterpiece, a beautiful and truly worthy recreation of La Primavera. A man and a woman, gifted to Hades and taken by Thanatos, laid out at Hannibal’s feet, acting as true lovers before Eros. 

 

Intimate. 

 

The Eros instinct is one of survival, pleasure, and life. You put the life in your belly and you live. So Hannibal puts their life in his belly and he lives. They are nothing but pigs for the slaughter, made beautiful by Hannibal and his knife. 

 

They will all be beautiful, and gifts to a girl he dares not name anymore. 

 

_ “I’ll give you everything.” _

 

~~~

 

It’s years later, and Mischa is still at the same orphanage. She’s not quite a woman and not quite a girl anymore, curves formed but her face still young. Youthful. “Where’s Ieva?”

 

The newer helper at the orphanage - Mikael - was in Ieva’s room, cleaning the sheets. The room smells of bleach and everything is too clean. It feels dead in the room. “Hm? Oh, hello Mischa.”

 

“Where’s Ieva?” Mischa asks softly, entering the room slowly.

 

“Oh… Ieva. She passed away last night, the sickness finally took her. She died in her sleep.” He says the words so… uncaringly. 

 

“Oh.”

 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know you were close with her. Most of us were just wary of her, you know, since she was…” he trails off with a flourish of his hand, as if it was no big deal, as if it was the way things were. 

 

“She wasn’t delusional.”

 

A sigh. “She thought that you were a Lecter, sweetheart. We all know that she dreamed up a lot of things and believed them.”

 

“I am a Lecter.”

 

A laugh, but then silence, contemplative. “Sweetheart, don’t tell me you… believed Ieva.”

 

“She wasn’t lying. I told her about my past.”

 

“But… oh. Oh well. I can’t convince you that you’re not a Lecter. But even if you are, there’s no one left in the Lecter line. It’s just you. They all died.”

 

“... Not all of them. My brother is still alive.” It’s more like she’s convincing herself of that statement, not Mikael. 

 

“Hannibal? He’s gone, Mischa. They’re all gone. He’s not even your… Mischa, you were born here. Ieva took you on a trip to the doctor when you were sick, and you were attacked by some men and badly injured. You aren’t a Lecter. You’ve lived here all your life.”

 

“No. Ieva brought me here.”  _ I am a Lecter. _

 

“Mischa…”

 

“No. Stop it. You won’t be able to convince me. I’m sorry.”

 

A sigh. “I know. I just… I hope that one day you’ll see the truth.”

 

“I already do.”

 

_ I am a Lecter. My name is Mischa Lecter. Hannibal Lecter is my brother. He’s my brother. He loves me. He said he’d protect me.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please leave kudos and comments! All of your lovely comments are the reason that this fic is still going! (however slowly)


	7. The Lecter Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reunion between siblings... but is she really what she says she is? Is Procel, Annabelle, the dead child, a Lecter?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey would you look at that, an update after... only two months?. 
> 
> This took me soooo looooong and it still sucks! This will be under heavy editing, but I just really want to post another chapter after two months. I’m so sorry for updating so slowly! I hope it’s worth it!
> 
> Enjoy the new and very very very heavy chapter ;)

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal murmurs into Will’s hair, breathing in his scent. 

 

“Morning,” Will mutters, his face tucked against Hannibal’s neck and his lips moving against his skin. He stretches in Hannibal’s arms, groaning softly, before cuddling right back up against him and breathing deeply. “You smell like sex.”

 

Hannibal chuckles. “I wonder why that is.”

 

“Probably because you had sex with someone last night,” Will grumbles. “Someone really sweaty.”

 

“Do you have any guesses as to who it was?” Hannibal muses, moving his lips to Will’s temple.

 

Will hums. “Oh, a couple.”

 

Hannibal brushes a strand of hair from Will’s eyes, a gleaming look in his eyes. Tender affection and a quiet, simmering lust. “Can the great Will Graham narrow it down to only one?”

 

“Don’t stroke my ego,” Will mutters, glaring lightly at Hannibal. “But yes, I could.”

 

“Do enlighten me,” Hannibal says, tucking his head against Will’s neck and kissing him softly at the pulse. The words are a plea whispered against Will’s throat. Dramatic little fucker. 

 

“Can’t do that if you keep yammering,” Will snaps without any real venom. “My brain is fried from all the fucking I did last night.”

 

“Oh, you too?” Hannibal sounds so damn smug when he says it. 

 

Will sighs, unable to summon any real anger, but he still takes a jab at Hannibal. “Yeah, it was with some old hairy dude who had a weird obsession with my eyes.”

 

“It’s not weird. It’s perfectly normal.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Hush now, it’s time for breakfast.”

 

“Yeah, that sounds good. Feed your sweaty husband.” Husband. It’s sounds so natural.

 

“Of course. He’s lost a lot of energy after last night’s activities.”

 

“Will it kill you to say the word fuck?”

 

“Most likely so.”

 

Will chuckles, mellow from the endorphins even against his best judgement. Hannibal looks so… normal in the mornings. Messy hair, drool on his lips, sleep in his eyes, morning breath… 

 

Will leans forward and kisses Hannibal softly on the lips, slowly, savoring the moment. 

 

“Good morning, my love,” Hannibal whispers against his lips before kissing him quickly again. 

 

“You’ve got a kink for pet names and I don’t know how I feel about it,” Will grumbles against his mouth, leaning away slowly and flopping back down onto the bed. 

 

“I think you don’t mind,” Hannibal muses, walking to the bathroom, naked as the day he was born. 

 

“Yeah, I don’t, but it’s  _ weird _ ,” Will says, stretching on the sheets, the sun warming his also naked body. “You’re a cannibal and you’re vanilla as fuck. And a bottom.”

 

Hannibal turns and looks at Will, toothbrush in his mouth and an unimpressed expression furrowing his eyebrows. Will gives him a shit eating grin.

 

“You’re a nightmare,” Hannibal mutters before turning back to brush his teeth. Such a normal… thing to say. 

 

Will shrugs and walks into the bathroom, wrapping his arms around Hannibal’s waist, hips slotted against Hannibal’s. “At least the nightmares don’t plague me anymore.”

 

_ Or is this just another dream? Can one dream a dream while dreaming?  _

 

Hannibal softens and leans back into Will’s embrace, comforting. “You’ve been so carefree and happy,” he murmurs. “At peace.”

 

Will nods. “Never thought the day would come.”

 

_ And maybe it didn’t.  _

 

Hannibal finishes brushing his teeth and turns around in Will’s arms, holding him against his chest. “I’m glad it did, and I’m glad you found it with me.”

 

“Boost your ego a bit?”

 

“This isn’t about my ego,” Hannibal murmurs. “This is about you. You’re happy. With me. I’m glad you picked me.”  _ And not Jack. _

 

“Me too,” Will murmurs. “Me too.”

 

_ I am glad for the blood that never stained the kitchen tiles, for the daughter that now breathes.  _

 

_ I am glad I am dreaming this dream. _

 

Breakfast is simple by Hannibal’s standards. Abigail slinks out of her room eventually, sleep in her eyes but a small smile on her lips. “Morning, dads.”

 

Will smiles widely, pulling her into a tight hug. “Morning, Abigail.”

 

Hannibal gives her a sweet smile, asking her about her dreams, and she responds with something vague and obviously a big ‘mind your own business’ to Hannibal. Will smirks. They eat together at the table, Abigail texting, Hannibal reading the paper and Will just sitting there with his coffee in hand, enjoying the warmth of the morning. Most of his mornings are like this, nowadays. Soft cuddles in the morning, soft kisses at breakfast, soft sunlight at noon, soft sunset coffee dates in the evening, and harsher kisses at night, the heat burning his skin. 

 

That’s not to say his life is completely soft. 

 

There are darker nights, harsher nights, with the knife in hand and blood in his mouth as Hannibal teaches him how to carve into bodies. With Hannibal’s voice in his ear and hands on his own, he kills. He picks the victims and is choosy as fuck, but he kills. They never take anything from the body or display anything too elaborate, but they kill. 

 

Will would be lying if he didn’t grow addicted to the feeling of killing beside Hannibal. 

 

Hannibal is the same in death. He’s still soft, affectionate, and smooth as fuck with his knife in hand. He doesn’t turn into the beast Will imagined time and time again. He’s the same. Will has been behind the veil with Hannibal for so long, that he no longer shifts suits to their environment. Not for Will, anyways. He’s just always and forever… Hannibal. 

 

They usually fuck after kills. Blood on their skin, underneath their nails, in their mouths, as they rut against each other like animals and kiss like drowning men gasping for air. Hannibal bottoms, usually, and Will sure as fuck does not complain. Seeing his Hannibal, strong, unbreakable,  _ dangerous _ , underneath Will’s hands and body, completely pliant and willing,  _ God  _ it’s addicting. 

 

Abigail is usually out with Annabelle on those nights - thankfully - and Hannibal seems completely unfazed by the woman. Annabelle DuBois, taking their daughter under her wing and not batting an eye at the random sleepovers arranged. Will is still suspicious - there’s something about her he cannot figure out - but Hannibal is confident in Abigail’s safety with her.

 

“It’s not just her safety, it’s ours as well,” Will commented at one point. “What if Jack sent her, or something? If she’s trying to convince Abigail to leave us?”

 

“Do you think Abigail would leave us?” Hannibal asked.

 

Will bristled. “I don’t know.”

 

Hannibal gave him an unimpressed look. 

 

“Okay, yes, I do know. She wouldn’t leave us. But she’s gotten close with Annabelle, she could still say something wrong, or get captured, or-”

 

“Will,” Hannibal whispered. “She will be okay.”

 

Will stilled underneath Hannibal’s warm hands on his cheeks. 

 

“Trust me.”

 

There’s been a hell lot of trust between Hannibal and Will lately. Trust to not turn the knife on each other, to not ring Uncle Jack, to not take Abigail away. Sometimes Will wonders how long it will last.

 

Annabelle is an interesting character. She introduced an Anthony Dimmonds to Hannibal and Will not long after their first kill together in Florence, and Hannibal recognized him from their brief time in France. A poet. Will has to scoff lightly at the lustful gazes he gives Hannibal (and Will) over the dinner table. Annabelle seems to be very aware of the looks as well, which only baffles Will even more. Was she trying to set Hannibal and Will up with… Anthony? In front of Abigail? It’s not like he doesn’t enjoy Anthony’s company - he’s got a sense of humor and a twinkle in his eyes that seems to entertain Hannibal - but while Anthony’s intent is crystal clear, Annabelle’s isn’t. What does she have to gain from introducing Anthony to them? 

 

Will doesn’t like Annabelle. 

 

First, she’s not actually Annabelle DuBois. The real Annabelle DuBois is probably in a box in the ocean somewhere, or in the rotting ground. Or maybe even long gone from someone’s stomach, if Annabelle’s flirty discussions with Hannibal about cooking were anything to go by. 

 

Second, Will can’t read her. Okay, he can, but not as well as he’d like to. He can tell when she’s scared, nervous, happy, or lying. But she’s rarely ever lying, but her entire identity is a lie. She’s a mixture of twisted words and lies and half truths - but it’s not as if Will isn’t familiar with those. She’s… so visibly twisted in her morals, but she is so pure in Will’s mind. She isn’t a killer. Maybe she has killed before, but she’s never killed because she enjoyed it. She hasn’t killed to feel that rush of adrenaline and to hear the dying gasps of her victim.

 

Third, she’s almost entirely focused on Abigail despite her age. Annabelle is a few years younger than Hannibal, closer in age to Will. She’s got hidden greys in her hair and smile written into the skins round her lips and eyes. Yet she dotes on Abigail the way sisters would. If it were motherly, Will would understand. But it isn’t motherly. It’s… possessive and… sisterly? 

 

Will is terrified of the fact that he doesn’t know her intentions towards his daughter.

 

~~~

 

“I’ve become friends with Abigail,” Procel murmurs, fiddling with a piece of her hair, her body at ease and nonchalant. “Although, I never call her that. She’s called Mischa, now.”

 

“Close enough for your plan to work?” Alana asks, her face impassive but left with the lingering lines of worry and concern for the girl. Her face is a white light in the dimly lit room Procel sits in, and Procel looks at her, her eyes drawn in like moths to a flame.

 

“Yes,” Procel says simply. “When it comes down to it, I think I can convince her to choose me over Hannibal and Will. She has a strong sense of self preservation.”

 

Alana nods. “Hence why she left with Hannibal and Will.”

 

“She didn’t just leave with them to survive, Alana. I hope you have realized that by now,” Annabelle says, pulling her hands from her hair and lacing them together in her lap. 

 

“I know,” Alana says softly, the tiredness filling her frame. No, not tiredness. Regret. 

 

“She loves them,” Procel whispers, leaning forward, watching the pixels framing Alana flicker under the darkness. “She loves them and they love her.” The words are like the whispers of the damned.

 

“I know,” Alana repeats. “But it doesn’t change the fact that it’s unhealthy. Their entire… family… is unhealthy. It’s Stockholm syndrome.”

 

“For Abigail, maybe,” Procel muses. “But she was born into a situation that demanded for Stockholm syndrome to occur and I doubt she’ll ever love someone who isn’t dangerous like Hannibal, Will, her father.”

 

“And for Will?”

 

Procel has to smile, just a bit, at that. “Will is the captive in his situation, but also the captor. What he has with Hannibal… I doubt our psychiatry has a term for it. A fragile balance made of blood and bone.”

 

Alana doesn’t seem as pleased as Procel. “Can the balance be tipped in your favor?”

 

Procel shrugs. “I can’t convince Will to choose me over Hannibal, but I can make him choose me in favor of protecting Hannibal.”

 

Alana narrows her eyes. 

 

“I’ll… trick him… into picking me and cooperating with the FBI in favor of sparing Abigail and putting Hannibal in a comfy cell where Will can choose to either abandon him or be with him.” Give him the illusion of escape.

 

“And what about Hannibal?” Alana says, her face becoming tighter and more unforgiving, but also just a touch scared.

 

Procel truly grins at that, giving Alana a small reason to worry. “He’ll be the hardest, but I have something up my sleeve.”

 

“You want to share what that is?” Alana’s voice is so impatient, and scared. Procel watches her with pitying eyes.  _ You’re so scared of the man you once loved. Scared of what you could never understand. Scared of those who can understand. _

 

Procel shakes her head slowly and lets the smile leave her lips, but stay in her eyes. “I’m not entirely sure what it is, but I’m working on something.”  _ Or, someone. _

 

Alana raises a single, perfectly maintained, eyebrow. “Really?”

 

Anthony Dimmonds. “It’ll… open a lot of doors for me, as well as force Hannibal’s hand.”

 

“Don’t do it too soon,” Alana says. “We don’t want to spook him and then lose him.”

 

“I know, I know. I’ll time it properly. How are things on the FBI side? Or… the Verger side?”

 

Alana scoffs but stiffens visibly.  _ You’re losing your touch, Alana. Too easily read. Not enough walls, especially since now you need them.  _  “Jack seems to have his own agenda. Mason does, too.”

 

So Procel is alone, then. Perfect. “And Margot?”

 

Alana smiles slightly. “She’s good. We’re good.”

 

Procel tilts her head. “I sense a ‘but’ coming up.”

 

Alana stiffens again. “It’s nothing that will affect the plan.”

 

“Tell me.”

 

She sighs and leans forward, her lips drawn into a thin line. Procel can see her weighing the pros and cons of telling the truth, and she watches her carefully. Eventually, she seems to surrender to telling the truth, and the words that escape her lips are softly spoken. “I’m pregnant.”

 

Procel lifts an eyebrow. Not what she expected. “You cheated on Margot or it’s a… friend helping out?”

 

Alana shakes her head. Procel narrows her eyes. A baby can change a lot of factors in Alana’s plan, not Procel’s, but certainly Alana’s. The baby is vulnerable, is another life that Alana has to protect.

 

“I… I didn’t even find out or try to find out until… until the baby bump showed.”

 

Procel leans further forward and watches Alana carefully. “Baby bumps show up between 12-16 weeks, Alana.”

 

Alana nods, not looking at Procel. “I know.” 

 

Alana looks too terrified and angry for Procel’s comfort. 

 

“Who’s baby is it?” She asks softly, and at that, Alana dips her head before lifting it and meeting Procel’s gaze. 

 

_ No. _

 

Procel doesn’t need a verbal answer. The pain and  _ fear _ in Alana’s eyes is enough.

 

“Hannibal’s.”

 

~~~

 

“You’re… pregnant,” Margot states, her voice disbelieving alongside her face. 

 

Alana nods. 

 

Margot chuckles. “I’m assuming you’re quite far along because that’s not fat on your belly. I would know. I’ve gotten quite a close look at that belly.”

 

Alana doesn’t say anything.

 

“Hey,” Margot whispers, sitting down next to Alana on the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, moving Alana slightly closer to her. “Don’t be so scared. You aren’t me. Mason won’t hurt you. He wants nothing to do with your baby.”

 

Alana shakes his head. “It’s not that.”

 

Margot puts an arm around Alana, rubbing comforting circles into her arm. “Then what is it? I promise I won’t judge. Or laugh at you. I might chuckle, but you know how it is.”

 

Alana is still silent. 

 

“It can’t be worse than whatever I’ve gone through,” Margot whispers. “If it is, I’ll be here for you, ready to kick anyone’s ass. Who’s the dad, anyways? You slept with them before you met me, right?”

 

Alana shivers and takes a deep breath, the air drawing trembles from her body. “Hannibal,” she whispers, the name shuddering past her lips.

 

Margot stares at Alana. “Hannibal,” she says slowly, the name dangerous in her mouth. “I know that you were with him before he was … you know, but… he’s the father?”

 

Alana can only nod.

 

“But… I would’ve taken him as a guy who uses condoms religiously and wouldn’t sleep with you when you were ovulating,” Margot says bluntly, her eyes digging into Alana. 

 

Alana laughs bitterly under her breath. “We both knew we were clean, and Hannibal never slept with me during ovulation, except for once, and then I used the morning after pill…” 

 

Margot watches as Alana shakes in Margot’s arms. “You can get an abortion, you know? If you don’t want to keep it.”

 

Funny how the thing in her stomach becomes a thing as soon as they discuss killing it.  _ It.  _ Would Hannibal call the life in her womb an ‘it’ if he discussed killing it? Or would he grin as he asked Alana if she wanted to kill her child? She shakes a bit more and puts her head on Margot’s shoulder. “I could. But…”

 

Margot waits patiently for her to continue. 

 

“Hannibal has a thing… about family,” Alana says softly. She’s thought about this for a while now, ever since she lost Abigail to that man. And the thinking has only increased the moment she found life in her belly. A life given to her from Hannibal… it’s almost ironic. Almost. “He would do anything to protect his family. Will and Abigail, he’d do anything for them. This baby, is his flesh and blood.” She laughs again, quietly and bitterly. “I think he wanted me to get pregnant. I don’t know how he did it, but he did something and now I’m carrying his child. He won’t hurt his own baby. He’ll hurt me, kill me, he promised that, but this baby… he won’t hurt his baby.”

 

“So as long as you have the baby in you…” Margot begins.

 

“He won’t hurt me.” The words are said with such conviction it hurts Margot’s heart. 

 

She looks at Alana. “How can you be sure? Even if he does care for the baby, what’s stopping him from kidnapping you first chance he gets and making sure the baby is safe on his own terms?”

 

“I don’t know,” Alana whispers. “But this is the best bet I got. He won’t hurt his baby. Out of pride or twisted love, he won’t.”

 

Margot sighs and wraps her arms heavily around Alana, pressing her face into Alana’s hair. “If you say so.”

 

“I have to,” Alana says. “This baby could save my life.”

 

Margot nods. “Then you keep the baby. And I’ll be here for you. Once the baby is born, do you want to keep them or give them away?”

 

Alana shakes her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far. Things get complicated once the baby is born and separate from me.”

 

“So for now, we keep the baby,” Margot reassures, pulling Alana tighter against her, her breath warm against Alana’s skin. “And we get rid of Hannibal before the baby is born.”

 

Alana nods, leaning fully on Margot. 

 

“Do you think he knows?” Margot muses quietly, petting Alana’s hair. “About the baby.”

 

“Maybe,” Alana whispers, her hands folding over her abdomen. “I’m not sure whether or not he was trying to get me pregnant. I need to stop trying to think like Hannibal. I can’t. I can never know what goes on inside his head.” Only Will can.

 

Margot hums in agreement.

 

“I can only do what I can, to survive.”

 

Alana may have had doubts about Mason’s plan, thinking that Procel was the better bet, but now she knows. Now her hand is forced. Mason will kill Hannibal and lift the sword from Alana’s head. Procel would simply put him behind bars. Hannibal wouldn’t stay there for long, and it would only be a matter of time before he came for her. Her and the baby who wouldn’t be so much of a baby by the time Hannibal escaped from prison. And for Will and Abigail… Alana can only hope that Procel convinces them to run before it’s too late.

 

~~~

 

“Annabelle, he’s even more beautiful than I remember,” Anthony sighs, slouching in his chair and scribbling away in his journal. 

 

Annabelle snorts, giving Anthony a playful look. “I’ve never met a man with looser pants than yours.”

 

Anthony has the decency to at least pretend to be offended. “Please, you can’t say a thing. You’ve slept with me more times than I can count, and quite quickly as well! Your trousers are just as loose as mine.”

 

“At least I don’t lust after married men.”

 

“Pft. I’m not trying to steal Rafael away from his dear Elio. Or Elio away from Rafael! I just want the opportunity to enjoy the both of them. Not to mention, did you notice the way they interact?”

 

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Anthony.”

 

“Rafael is a  _ bottom _ , Annabelle! Please tell me you noticed.”

 

“For the love of…” she sighs, but a smile is on her lips. Anthony is filled with such a young spirit, such life. She can’t help but enjoy his presence. “Rafael is not a bottom.”

 

Anthony gives Annabelle a disbelieving look. “Maybe not always, but he’s most certainly a bottom for Elio. And a power bottom at that.”

 

“Why are you like this?”

 

“Because I can be,” he says defiantly before sipping his coffee. “And I know you agree, I can see it in your eyes.”

 

“Really now?” She narrows his eyes at him, tilting her head back and giving a disbelieving look. 

 

“Yes. You know that Rafael is a power bottom and you know that Elio loves topping that man.” 

 

She groans. “Yes, I do, but I don’t want to talk about it. I have no need to speculate about their sex lives.”

 

He laughs, tilting his head back as he does so. “You’re helping me get into their sex lives, though!”

 

She pauses before quietly saying, “Ignoring that fact.”

 

Anthony laughs and leans back, tapping his chin as he muses. “Do you think Rafael would top me—”

 

“Okay that’s enough,” Annabelle says, slapping her hand over Anthony’s mouth. “You are hopeless.”

 

He grins at her and nips at her fingers. She doesn’t move.

 

“Kinky,” he says into her hand, the word horribly muffled.

 

“You’re the one biting me, Anthony,” she reminds him, and he laughs, his eyes crinkling beautifully. 

 

_ You’ll be a beautiful corpse for Hannibal. _

 

“What do you think about their kinks?” Annabelle asks, a dark playfulness lurking behind her eyes.

 

Anthony coughs and she removes her hand. “What happened to ‘no need to speculate about their sex lives?’”

 

“Answer me,” she says, rolling her eyes.

 

He sticks out his tongue and shifts in his seat. “Rafael is most definitely a kinky little shit.”

 

“Of course,” she says, remembering blood. “But how so?”

 

“Power,” Rafael says immediately. “He’s a bottom, but the transference of power is extremely important to him. He probably only submits for Elio.”

 

Annabelle smirks. “Enough with the bottoming and topping, Anthony.”

 

“You asked!”

 

“About kinks! Not bottoming!”

 

“Power is heavily related to most kinks,” he mutters, glaring at her. 

 

“Yes, that is true,” she admits. “But tell me something else. More specific.”

 

_ Tell me about blood.  _

 

“More specific…” he trails off, looking off in the distance and sipping at his coffee. “He’s gentle, I would think, at least with Elio. You’d have to be, with that much adoration in your eyes when looking at your loved one. But he’d enjoy something more demanding and painful.”

 

“Biting?” Annabelle says, just for the hell of it.

 

Anthony nods, still looking away. “Definitely.”

 

Annabelle tries not to think about Anthony dying during sex because Hannibal decided to go cannibalistic. It’s a more horrifying image that she originally thought it’d be.

 

“And… now that I think about it,” Anthony muses. “He’d probably have a thing for blood, as well. Especially with the whole oral fixation thing.”

 

“Makes sense,” she says, ignoring the visions of red. The bodies lurking in the darkness of Florence. 

 

“Why do I get the impression you’re saying that for a different reason than the one I suggested?” He asks, looking at her suspiciously. “I’m saying it makes sense because he’s so obsessive with food and the way Elio eats. You… you’re not saying it makes sense because of that. There’s something else.”

 

It’s surprising how well Anthony can read people. How easily he can peer into other people’s minds. 

 

“Because there is something else,” she says, looking at Anthony with a much more serious tone. “Ignoring kinks. Just… let’s drop that subject. Please.”

 

He sets down his notebook and coffee. “Okay,” he says softly, watching her carefully.

 

She takes a deep breath. “I did some digging about Rafael, per your request,” she begins slowly, choosing her words carefully. 

 

“Go on.”

 

She pretends to be hesitant, to be reluctant to speak. “Rafael Angelo… well, frankly speaking, he looked quite different two years ago.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out the folders that have been burning a hole in her bag for weeks. She hands them to Anthony.

 

“Where the hell did you get official FBI level documents?” Anthony says, quickly snatching up the folder. He opens it, and she knows that the first thing he sees is the picture.

 

“I have friends,” she says softly, the words not reaching Anthony.

 

“What is this?” He says, but his voice is less surprised than she would have expected. He sounds… genuinely intrigued.

 

“The real Rafael Angelo.”

 

His eyes smirk and the corners of his mouth twitch. “So, the Rafael we know, is a little  _ liar _ .”

 

Annabelle stays silent, encouraging Anthony to speak more.

 

“And I’m assuming Elio is…” He turns a page. “Yup, also a fake.” Another page is turned. “So is the daughter.” He chuckles, licks his lips and flits his eyes up towards Annabelle. “Please tell me you have pictures of our Rafael and Elio, but with their real names.”

 

She hands him another folder.

 

He opens it and reads, ignoring the photo. She sees his lips mouth the name  _ Hannibal Lecter _ and  _ William Graham.  _ The words:  _ Wanted. Cannibal. FBI.  _

 

“Well fuck,” Anthony whispers before groaning. “Please tell me he didn’t feed us people.”

 

“I doubt it,” Annabelle says. “It’s his trademark and he doesn’t want to risk getting caught here.”

 

Anthony reads more of the files, and she sees  _ Alana Bloom, Jack Crawford, Abigail Hobbs. _

 

“Mischa,” he says. “She’s… a victim?”

 

“Some would argue that she no longer is.”

 

Anthony closes the folder and looks at her. “How?”

 

“She’s safe,” she says. “Safer than she’ll ever be. And loved.”

 

Anthony’s face scrunches up in confusion. “How is she  _ safe _ ? Hannibal… is a fucking cannibal and serial killer.”

 

“Hannibal wouldn’t dare lay a hand on her,” Annabelle snaps, her tone turning too sharp. “And he is willing to kill for her. I’d say that she’s damn safe.”

 

He lifts a perfectly cut eyebrow. “How do you know what Hannibal would do?”

 

“Read the rest of the file,” she says softly.

 

He does, and she watches him mouth _Doctor Annabelle Procel DuBois._ _Psychiatrist. FBI._

 

“You’re here to… what? Catch him?” He says, his eyebrows moving with a flourish. 

 

She twists her hands together, mocking worry. Concern. Regret in the sharing of secrets. “Something like that.”

 

He laughs quietly, but then it grows louder and louder. “Doctor Annabelle Procel DuBois, working with the FBI to catch Hannibal the Cannibal.” His laughs rings through the apartment, and he covers his face with a hand. “I can’t believe it. It’s like a fucking mystery novel. The agent goes undercover as a performer, and befriends the enemy. A spy.”

 

“And she needs help,” Annabelle murmurs.

 

_ The line is cast. _

 

Anthony looks at her. “ _ My _ help?”

 

_ The fish sees it. _

 

She nods and clears her throat. “Yes.”

 

“How could  _ I _ help?” He says. “I’m just a poet. A poet who wants to sleep with a fucking cannibal and his husband.”

 

_ The fish swims towards it, intrigued for a meal. _

 

“They don’t suspect you,” she whispers, luring him deeper. “They suspect me.”

 

_ The fish nears it. _

 

He huffs. “And so you want me to… what? Be the lure?”

 

“Essentially, yes,” Procel says. “Spook Hannibal. Let him know that we know he’s here.” Force his hand.

 

“How?”

 

“Drop his name in conversation,” she says. “When Abigail and I are out, and you’re spending a private dinner with them, flirt with them. Hint about knowing the real Rafael Angelo. Say something poetic about the masks men wear.”

 

“Won’t he just kill me as soon as I become a threat?” Anthony says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “He has a good way to get rid of evidence.”

 

“But too many witnesses,” she says. “Abigail and I will be close by, and they can’t kill here in Florence. There’s too much risk.”

 

“This man is a professional,  _ doctor.” _

 

“He’s also in love,” she snaps. “He came to Florence with Abigail and Will to protect them. He won’t risk it. There are too many unknown factors.”

 

“Especially since he suspects you,” he points out.

 

Procel nods. “He won’t be able to do anything but run. And when he tries to, I’ll be there to catch him.”

 

“Fine,” Anthony says, laughing to himself. “I can’t believe myself, but I’m impulsive as hell. So, yes. I’ll do it,  _ doctor. _ ” He laughs again, covering his mouth. “I’ll help you catch the killer. Be one hell of a book, now that I think about it.”

 

_ The fish bites, unaware of the hook. _

 

“Thank you,” Procel whispers. “Don’t do anything about it without telling me.”

 

“Of course, doctor.”

 

“And don’t call me that,” she says.  _ It’s as if you’re calling me Hannibal. _

 

~~~

 

Anthony stays silent for weeks, as per Procel’s request. They have dinner with the Angelos - or rather, the Lecters - a few times, and while she can see the newfound suspicion in both Will’s and Anthony’s eyes, no one does anything. She continues to sleep with Anthony, and also socializes with Abigail, creating closer bonds. They’ll spend the night together fairly often - coinciding with what Procel assumes to be Will and Hannibal’s newer kills - and she can feel the tension hiding behind curtains, unnoticed, but there.

 

The tension snaps when she least expects it.

 

It’s a night with Abigail again. They’re spending the evening by playing cards, Abigail insisting on playing slapjack, her grin wide as her younger, faster hands beating Annabelle’s. They’re laughing loudly, squealing in delight when one of them achieves victory, and the atmosphere is comfortable. Abigail reminds Annabelle of her childhood - young, happy, and completely under Hannibal’s protection. She seems so carefree, even with the murders occurring behind her back. Protected.

 

Procel hears something thud in the back room, and suddenly everything in her freezes. She doesn’t have a pet. There’s no wind.

 

“Who’s there?” She calls, motioning to Abigail to be quiet. Abigail obeys, a fear in her eyes. It’s been so long since she knew death, so long since she knew fear. 

 

There is no response, and only silence. Procel can feel that human presence. There’s someone here.

 

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a hunting knife. Abigail’s eyes widen. 

 

_ How long has it been since the last time you killed?  _

 

“Hide in the bedroom,” Procel mouths, pressing the handle of the knife into Abigail’s palm. “You know how to hunt, this is no different. Use it if they try to hurt you.”

 

Procel could be acting completely paranoid right now. Something could have fallen without a human being there. And even if someone was there, it could just be a stupid burglar. It doesn’t have to a murderer in her temporary home.

 

But Procel isn’t taking any risks. Not when she’s so close to Hannibal.

 

Abigail obeys her and walks quietly to the bedroom, the door locking quietly behind her. Procel breathes deeply and pulls out her own knife, the blade longer and the handle covered in soft leather. 

 

_ Blood. Screaming.  _

 

She breathes deeply again. She opens and closes the front door loudly, her footsteps clear. She whispers something to herself. Her footsteps become quiet again as she steps forward towards the back room. 

 

“Who’s there?” She calls again, hiding her knife against her thigh. 

 

Still no reply. 

 

She turns on the light, and there is no one there. There’s nothing on the floor. Nothing knocked over. The yellow tiles are clean, the books are on their shelves, and the doors are all closed. Was she being purely paranoid? 

 

Something hits the back of her head, and she falls to the floor, the knife against her thighs clattering against the tile. 

 

_ Apparently you weren’t. _

 

~~~

 

She wakes up tied to a chair. Her hands are bound and there’s something wet on her cheeks. Blood? There’s no gag, though. Why is there no gag? Is she still in the apartment?

 

She manages to open her eyes, and she sees two men sitting before her, knives in their hands. They’re dressed in black, but they don’t have masks. They’re speaking quietly to each other, and she can’t see any signs of Abigail. Hopefully she’s safe. Hannibal and Will would kill Annabelle if something happened to Abigail.

 

“You thieves?” She manages to say, her voice a croak. 

 

They turn their heads towards her, and they both grin.

 

“You’re awake!” The one on the left says, and she recognises his voice. Where does she know him from?

 

They step forward and tug her head back by her hair, gloved hands cruel against her scalp. “How are you feeling, Mischa?”

 

_ Oh. That’s where I know you from. _

 

“Dean,” she says softly, finally recognizing the man holding her head. “I thought you died.”

 

He chuckles. “No, I’m still very much alive, no thanks to you.”

 

“How did you survive the fire?” She asks, her hands subtly moving against the tape binding them. She wonders if she could snap them.

 

“Painfully so,” Dean says, letting go of her hair and stepping back. “I lost a leg in the process.”

 

“So we’re like twins, now?” She says softly, and the other man slaps her. She groans quietly but manages to smile. “Hello, Cisco.”

 

“Hello,  _ Mischa,” _ Cisco spits. “Or would you prefer ‘Annabelle DuBois?’”

 

“Either one works for me,” she says, shrugging against the binds. She’s disarmed and tied to a chair. She doesn’t know why Dean and Cisco are here. She doesn’t know if Abigail is safe. Hannibal and Will won’t check on Abigail until morning. She’s honestly a bit fucked.

 

“Well,  _ Señora DuBois _ ,” Cisco drawls. “We’re here for some revenge.”

 

“You gonna burn me?” She muses quietly, her brain frantically turning in search of a plan. “Burn me like how I burned you?”

 

They both laugh loudly, and just hidden by their laughs, she hears a door click open. 

 

_ Abigail. _

 

“Or will you cut me?” She says loudly, hoping to draw their attention to her. “Cut me and then burn me?” Her voice comes out too desperate, but they’ll write it off as fear. Not hope.

 

They near her again, and her hair is grabbed by Cisco. 

 

“Don’t tell us how you’d like to be killed,” he whispers harshly. The door doesn’t make another sound. 

 

“Then do enlighten me,” she whispers back, and then she spits in his face.

 

He roars in rage and slaps her, her neck protesting at how quickly her head moves. “Bitch.”

 

“I prefer Annabelle DuBois or Mischa,” she reminds him, pushing more buttons. “Not your name.”

 

He moves to hit her again, but Dean holds him back. “Not yet.”

 

“No, not yet,” she says, sneering at the two of them. “Dean dearest would like to satisfy a few sexual fantasies before killing me.”

 

It’s Dean’s turn to hit her, and she tastes copper. She spits it out, glimpsing at Dean with a cruel grin. 

 

_ All eyes on me. _

 

“You’d like that, wouldn't you?” He whispers, moving closer to her and leaning down to her, his breath hot against her cheek. “Like the fucking whore you are.”

 

“I’m the whore?” She whispers, narrowing her eyes at him and casting a glance at Cisco. She sees a faint shadow behind him. “Who was the one to sleep behind their wife’s back?”

 

Another slap, harder this time. She tastes more blood in her mouth, and it trickles past her lips. 

 

“You were lucky to catch my eye,” he snarls. 

 

“You were lucky to get a taste of this,” she spits back. 

 

“No, I wasn’t,” he whispers, gripping her chin tightly. “No one is lucky to get a taste of the mud.”

 

“Oh, you tasted far more than mud,” she replies, grinning with teeth she knows are stained red.

 

“Dean,” Cisco says, stepping next to him. Thankfully Dean doesn’t look back at him, only glances. “Remember what we’re here for.”

 

“Yes, do remember,” Mischa says. 

 

_ Eyes on me. Eyes on me. _

 

Cisco grabs her hair and leans close enough for her to feel his beard against her cheek. “You shut it, whore.”

 

“Make me,” she throws back. 

 

It has its desired effect, those words. Cisco shoves her gloved fingers past her lips and she gags, but they’re both staring so intently at her.  _ Eyes on me. _ They won’t look behind them.

 

_ Just a bit longer. C’mon, Abigail. Hunt. _

 

Before she can bite down, Cisco removes his hand and Dean is watching her with cruelty lustful eyes. She feels her first pang of real fear. 

 

“Should we take turns?” Dean asks Cisco softly. “Or just take her at the same time?”

 

_ Please, Abigail. _

 

Before Cisco can reply, a knife flashes in the faint moonlight and cuts into his throat.

 

_ Abigail. _

 

Dean whips around, but he’s too late, too unsuspecting, too distracted by his lust. 

 

_ Blood on the tiles, blood on the sheets, blood on her hands. _

 

His throat bleeds as well.

 

“Mischa,” she calls loudly. “Cut me loose.”

 

Abigail is standing there, knife in her hands and blood all over her torso and hands. She’s trembling as she stands there, her lips wobbling. She looks so scared.

 

“Mischa,” she calls again, but there is no response.

 

Cursing inwardly, she tries again. “Abigail.”

 

That gets a jerk of her head, and bright baby blue eyes looking at her in desperation.

 

“Cut me loose.”

 

Abigail nods once, twice, and then a third time. She wobbles over towards Mischa, stepping over the leaking bodies, and shudders out unsteady breaths. She reaches Mischa and fumbles with the blade as she nears the binds. 

 

“You’re okay, Abigail,” Mischa whispers. “They’re gone. They can’t hurt you. He can’t hurt you.”

 

_ Nicholas Boyle is dead. _

 

Her hands are steady as they cut through Mischa’s bonds, and as soon as she can, she leaves the seat and takes the knife from Abigail’s hands. The knife is placed gingerly on top of Dean’s body. 

 

“You’re safe, Abigail,” Mischa whispers, opening her arms in invitation. “You’re okay.”

 

Abigail accepts, bursting into tears as she collapses into Mischa’s arms. Her body shudders with the tears, her wails muffled by Mischa’s shirt. She cries and she cries against Mischa, and Mischa simply holds her. She holds her tightly, rubbing soothing circles into Abigail’s body, and whispering comforting words.

 

_ You are safe. I am here for you. I will protect you. _

 

But Abigail was the one who protected Mischa, surprisingly. Abigail was the first one to kill.

 

“I’m sorry I’m so sorry,” Abigail whispers into a small whine. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Mischa reassures her. “You saved me. I’m safe. We’re both safe. They won’t be harming anyone anytime soon.”

 

She lets Abigail cry against her for a few more minutes, but when her cries finally die down and her wails become heavy breaths, she slowly pries herself out of Abigail’s clutch.

 

“Abigail,” Mischa whispers. “You’re covered in blood. Go run a bath for yourself, and I’ll dispose of the bodies.”

 

Abigail nods her head jerkily and wobbles towards the bathroom. Mischa stays still and watches her until she’s out of sight.

 

“Fuck,” she whispers, dropping to her knees. She crouches low and wraps her arms around herself, staring at the blood on the floor and the bodies of Dean and Cisco. “Fuck.”

 

She rocks back and forth, releasing shuddering breaths. She hasn’t killed in so long. She hasn’t seen death in so long. She slaps a hand over her mouth as she collapses on the floor and sobs quietly. She forgot what the death was like.

 

_ And yet, you’re running towards Death himself. _

 

“Get a hold of yourself,” she mutters to the thick air around her.

 

The bodies on the floor do not reply. They simply stare at her.

 

She stands shakily and clenches her jaw. The bodies. She needs to dispose of the bodies. 

 

She walks to the kitchen and puts on the surgical gloves she wears when cleaning - wounds or the apartment - and pulls out her meat cleaver, whispering comforting words to herself. She briefly checks if it needs sharpening - it doesn’t - and walks back to the bodies, the cleaver and several plastic bags in hand. The thicker clothing is removed - leather jackets, boots, belts, etc. - and she puts those all together in a bag. She cuts the bodies into smaller pieces and puts each one into a bag. The bags are tired securely. When she’s done with the bags, she brings bleach and towels to clean. She scrubs until her hands are raw and the tiles have no smell nor taint of blood on them. The bags of flesh are placed in a trash can out back, which she’ll move to another part of town tomorrow morning. Some of the bags will be given to where straw dogs like to eat. Some bags she’ll throw into an innocent person’s yard. The clothes she places into the washing machine, and the belts are left in a separate bag. 

 

She looks at her own clothes and softly curses again. She needs to wash herself.

 

Abigail is sitting in the bath when Mischa opens the door, holding herself with pale, freckled arms and staring at the wall. She makes no movement to show that she’s noticed Mischa’s entrance. There’s still blood in her hair and on her skin.

 

“Abigail.”

 

Abigail turns her head quickly towards Mischa, hiding her body with her arms and hands. “How do you know my name?”

 

Ah, so she’s out of shock, then.

 

Mischa enters and kneels besides the bathtub, moving slowly and acting as non-threatening as possible - which can be a bit of a challenge when you’re coated in blood and smelling like bleach. “I’ve known who you are, for a while.”

 

Abigail does not move, but watches Mischa with wary eyes. “How?”

 

“I recognized you from the papers,” Mischa says quietly. “I keep up with the American news. I read 

Tattlecrime.”

 

Abigail scoffs. “Of course you do.” She looks down at the pink water and bites her lip. “So you know who my dads are, then.”

 

Mischa nods. “Yes.”

 

“Are you gonna call the police?” Abigail asks softly, her hair falling into her eyes and hiding her face. “Put them in prison?”

 

“No,” Mischa says quietly, and Abigail looks up to her at that. Mischa offers a small, half-hearted smile. “I think you already know that I’m not in a position to point fingers.”

 

“You’re a killer,” Abigail whispers. “Like my dads.”

 

Mischa shakes her head. “I’m not like them. Death, to me, isn’t… it isn’t something I enjoy.”

 

“But you kill,” Abigail says. “You’ve killed people and people want to kill you.”

 

“Some people,” Mischa says. “I kill people who deserve to die and the people who want to kill me have every reason to want to.”

 

“Who were they?” Abigail asks, her eyes flicking past Mischa’ shoulder and towards the doorway of the bathroom. “The men.”

 

“Dean and Cisco,” Mischa answers. “I used to work with them, selling drugs. We were based in Florida, back then.”

 

“And why did they want you dead?” 

 

Mischa huffs. “I found out that the drugs we had been selling were used as profit to… support a trafficking ring. So I called the cops anonymously, and set the warehouse where we stored our drugs and did business to the ground, all twenty dealers inside of it.”

 

“And you…” Abigail trails off, clears her throat, and starts again. “And you slept with Dean?”

 

Mischa nods. “He was married, I was young, and we were selling drugs. Sex was easy.”

 

Abigail doesn’t respond to that, but asks a new question. “Annabelle isn’t your name, is it?”

 

Mischa shakes her head. “It’s not the name my parents gave me.”

 

“Is Mischa your real name?” Abigail asks, and the name looks so strange on her lips. 

 

Mischa wants to say no. She wants to keep Abigail in the dark for a little while longer, but she can’t bear to. “Yes,” she whispers, smiling sadly. “It is.”

 

“Like me,” Abigail says. “We have the same name.”

 

Mischa chuckles softly. “Yeah. We do, don’t we? Mischa.”

 

Abigail nods and turns back to the water, lifting her hand to run it through the pink liquid. 

 

“Let me bathe you,” Mischa whispers. “I can help you get rid of the blood.”

 

Abigail laughs bitterly, but shifts in her seat to be more open to Mischa. “I thought I was rid of the blood.”

 

Mischa grabs a towel and starts lathering Abigail’s shoulders and back with soap. “I don’t think you ever will be, Abigail,” she murmurs, her hands gentle against freckled skin. “You’re drawn to it. Or it to you.”

 

“Because of my dad?” Abigail asks, her voice bordering on angry.

 

“Which one?” Mischa asks. “You have three fathers.” She rubs the towel firmly against Abigail’s neck, hard enough to remove the blood but gentle enough to not cause discomfort to Abigail. “Garrett Jacob Hobbs.” She uses a small cup to pour water over the soapy skin. “Will Graham.” She moves to another patch of bloody skin. “Hannibal Lecter.”

 

Abigail shudders.

 

“Which one is it that tied death to you?” 

 

Abigail shakes her head. “My birth father maybe.” She pauses. “But they all did that. Will was drawn to me, and he brought Hannibal with him. So Death followed.”

 

“Are you tired of the blood?” Mischa asks quietly, her voice barely audible. “Are you tired of the death?”

 

“I am,” Abigail admits. “But I can’t escape it. I thought I escaped it here, in Florence, but I didn’t. You found me. And you brought death.”

 

“Don’t you know your fathers are still killing?” Mischa asks. “Here, in Florence?”

 

“But I don’t see any of it,” Abigail snaps. “I don’t see the blood, I don’t taste it, either. They might kill once or twice a month, but I never see the death. I was free.”

 

“Do you resent me for bringing it back into your life?” Mischa asks.

 

Abigail shakes her head again. “It’s not your fault.” She sighs. “You didn’t ask for the blood and the death.”

 

_ No. She didn’t. But she’s running towards it, reaching out with childish hands, hoping to grasp Death. _

 

Mischa switches to washing Abigail’s hair, gently scrubbing the soap into Abigail’s scalp. Her hair is slightly blonde in certain places, the sun kissing it. “No, I didn’t.”

 

~~~

 

Abigail agrees to keep the entire situation a secret, and to say that Annabelle ran into her rapist from ten years ago, if Hannibal and Will were to ask. 

 

The tension snapping only leads to more destruction.

 

Abigail and Annabelle have a girls night out again, and this time, Hannibal and Will spend an evening with Anthony. Annabelle told Anthony that this is the night to drop the bomb, the night to whisper the name  _ Hannibal Lecter _ into Rafael Angelo’s ear, and Anthony looked so eager. He spent an hour picking his outfit, and debating on whether or not to bring a weapon. Annabelle strongly advised him against it.

 

“They won’t harm you,” Annabelle had reassured him. “They can’t.”

 

It had been one of the heavier lies she told him that evening. 

 

When she conveniently remembers that she left her scarf at the Angelo’s apartment, an hour later, she brings Abigail with her back to the Angelo apartment, and she’s armed. A gun in her purse, as well as a hunting knife. 

 

They don’t both on knocking - Abigail opens the door - and when they enter the apartment, they see the limp body of Anthony Dimmonds on the kitchen floor, Will and Hannibal engaged in tense conversation as they stand over the corpse.

 

Abigail gasps loudly, covering her hands and taking a step away from the body twenty feet ahead.

 

Hannibal and Will’s heads snap up at the same time, their sharp eyes capturing Annabelle and Abigail.

 

“Abigail,” Will says, too quickly and too foolishly. Hannibal’s eyes narrow and his hands move slightly towards Will, too late.

 

Will walks quickly to Abigail and Annabelle, embracing Abigail quickly and dragging her away from Annabelle.

 

“Hannibal,” Will calls sharply, and Annabelle’s hands itch to grab a weapon. 

 

Hannibal strides over, calmly, dangerously, and stops besides Will. “Ms DuBois.”

 

“Doctor,” Annabelle whispers. 

 

The darkness drops over Hannibal and Will’s eyes. 

 

“Do you need help disposing the body?” She asks softly. 

 

Hannibal and Will remain unimpressed, and she can see the twitch of Will’s hands on Abigail.

 

Hannibal moves to step forward, but Abigail speaks before he can.

 

“Don’t hurt her,” Abigail whispers quickly, her pleading doe eyes looking up at Hannibal. 

 

He is kind when he speaks, but not gentle. “Why? According to the man in our kitchen, she was the one who tipped him off about us. She knows who we are, and she is most certainly not who she says she is.”

 

“Her name is Mischa,” Abigail says before Annabelle can speak for herself. “She knew who we are ever since she met us. She doesn’t want to turn us in or hurt us.”

 

“Really?” Hannibal says, looking to Annabelle, who nearly shakes at the full intensity of his gaze. “Is that so?”

 

“If I wanted you behind bars, I would have called the FBI or Mason Verger the moment I laid eyes on you,” Annabelle says. 

 

“Mason Verger?” Will asks, his eyes cold and dangerous as he watches Annabelle.

 

“He has a bounty on your head,” she whispers before bitterly laughing quietly. “Plenty of money for your capture.”

 

Will stiffens and his arms around Abigail tighten. 

 

“Do you need help disposing the body?” Annabelle asks again. “I am not here to hurt you. I’m not here to threaten you. I’m here because I want to protect Abigail.”

 

“Why?” Will asks, finally releasing Abigail so he can stand in front of Annabelle and watch her with eyes that see too much.

 

“What do you see, Will?” She asks. “What do you see in my eyes?”

 

Will shakes his head. “I don’t. I don’t know why you want to help Abigail, or why you want to help us. Be near us. You’re not a killer. You’re familiar with death but you aren’t a killer. You can’t a killer fanatic. You never knew Abigail before Florence. And for some reason, you look at Hannibal like he’s the sun.”

 

Annabelle softens at his words. “Abigail saved my life a few weeks ago. I had old enemies break into my apartment and try to kill me. Abigail killed them before they had a chance.”

 

Hannibal doesn’t look surprised, but Will does, if only for a moment. He’s soon nodding and huffing out a quiet laugh.

 

“Of course,” Will whispers. “Of course she did.”

 

“Are you mad?” Abigail asks him. “That I killed them?”

 

Will looks to her with adoration and love and devotion in his eyes. “No, god no. I just… I wanted you to be free of the blood.”

 

She nods. “I know.”

 

“Let me help with the body,” Annabelle says. “And then we can talk.”

 

~~~

 

“Do you trust Annabelle?” Hannibal asks one evening, far after Abigail has fallen asleep. 

 

Will is laying beside him, their arms and legs carelessly entwined. They’re naked, covered in sweat and come but not blood, and the open window casts pale light across their bodies. The last few minutes have been spent coming down from the high of orgasm, and simply touching each other with no rush and no burning desire. A comfortable, quiet but present need to touch each other’s skin. 

 

“Yes,” Will says, not looking at Hannibal, but instead looking at the hands tracing his hipbone. “I trust her with Abigail.”

 

Hannibal hums, but Will can tell it’s not in agreement. 

 

“Why don’t you?” Will asks. “You trusted her before, but now, after she helped us hide Anthony’s body, you don’t?”

 

Hannibal takes one of Will’s hand in his own, turning it in the moonlight. 

 

“What do you see?” Hannibal asks, focused entirely on Will’s hand. “In my opinion?”

 

Will sighs and rolls onto his side so he faces Hannibal, his hand holding Hannibal’s. Their gazes meet, and Will will never be tired of the adoration he sees in Hannibal’s eyes. 

 

“You think she’s manipulating us,” Will whispers, pressing a soft kiss against Hannibal’s wrist. “And now you know how far she’d be willing to go in order to gain our trust.”

 

“She knows too much,” Hannibal says softly. “And while Abigail dotes on her… she is a threat to this life we’ve made. She could be a spy.”

 

“For Jack?” Will asks.

 

Hannibal nods. “I believe it is most certainly possible.”

 

Will sighs and rests his head on Hannibal’s chest. “Why can’t we just… be free of this. I just want to be happy with my husband and daughter.”

 

Hannibal’s chest swells in pride and affection. “You know I feel the same, Will. And I will do everything in my power to maintain this life we’ve made together.”

 

_ Even if it isn’t his reality to control.  _

 

“What are you going to do?” Will asks, lifting his head to look at Hannibal from behind a curtain of dark curls. 

 

“I have a friend who owes me a favor,” Hannibal says. “They’ll take care of it for us.”

 

“We’re not doing it ourselves?” Will asks.

 

The tips of Hannibal’s lips twitch upwards. “I want to see what happens, but from a distance.”

 

~~~

 

“They trust me,” Procel announces on her call with Alana. “Abigail especially.”

 

Alana gives a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

 

“How’s the baby?” Procel asks. “You said you’re keeping it, so how’s it doing? Hanging in there?”

 

Alana nods. “The baby is fine.”

 

“So what’s with the sad face?” Procel asks, tilting her head. “You seem… anxious.”

 

Alana bites at her lower lip and looks down at her hand in her lap. “Jack is flying to Florence tomorrow morning.”

 

Procel stiffens. “Why? I’m nearly there!”

 

Alana shakes her head. “He found a link to Hannibal and an old killer in Florence. Il Mostro. He believes that Il Mostro is Hannibal’s beginnings.”

 

Procel stares helplessly at the screen. Jack isn’t wrong, Il Mostro was Hannibal, but he’s wrong about the beginnings. Hannibal’s beginnings go further than a murder spree in Florence. “If Hannibal sees him, this entire plan is ruined. Tell Jack to stay back.”

 

“Jack just buried his wife,” Alana says, her voice tired. “He won’t listen to anyone.”

 

“He can’t come here, not when he’s emotionally unstable and not when I’m so close to catching Hannibal,” Procel hisses. 

 

Alana sighs. “I can’t stop him. And I won’t. Because Mason has been contacted and he’s sending a group of men to capture Hannibal.”

 

Procel’s eyes widen and she shakes her head slightly, the movement jerky. “When?” She spits out. “When?!”

 

“I don’t know,” Alana says softly, guilt creeping into her eyes. “They won’t tell me. But they’re going to take Will, too. Maybe even Abigail.”

 

Procel curses loudly and bangs get hand against the table, shaking her computer. “Dammit, Alana!”

 

“I know,” Alana whispers. “So you need to get Abigail out of there. There’s no hope for Hannibal and Will, and frankly, what’s coming for them, they deserve. Abigail is innocent, and you need to save her.”

 

“I can’t take her away from them!” Procel reminds Alana. “She’s their child! And I am merely a stranger who they still have reason to mistrust! If I tell them about Mason and Jack, they’ll no longer trust me and they’ll be gone. They’ll disappear again and we won’t find them for years. Abigail will be off in university by then, and Hannibal and Will will be happily spending the rest of their lives in a castle in Lithuania!”

 

Alana doesn’t shrink away from Procel’s tone. “I don’t do anything but keep you updated. Please…” she looks at Procel with such agony and regret. “Save Abigail.”

 

The call ends and Procel screams in frustration. 

 

~~~

 

The next day, Annabelle spends lunch with the Lecters, and she not-so-subtly suggests the Carribean as an ideal vacation spot. She lists several airlines, names a few friends, and even bluntly tells them to leave Florence for a while, but Hannibal doesn’t budge. 

 

“I have a project at the university, right now,” Hannibal says not-so-regrettably. “And Will can’t afford to leave his students so suddenly. But, maybe in the winter, we could visit. It does sound quite lovely.”

 

She internally screams.  _ Leave. Leave now. Please. Just… escape what I cannot save you from.  _

 

~~~

 

“Abigail,” she whispers urgently as they walk back to her apartment, Hannibal and Will gone. “Listen to me closely.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Abigail asks, putting a hand on Annabelle’s arm. “You’ve been stressed all morning.”

 

“You need to leave,” Annabelle whispers quickly. “There are people coming for your fathers. They don’t want you. I can’t save Hannibal and Will, but I can save you. Please. Leave with me. Tonight. I’ll sneak you out and we can drive out of the city. I have a friend who is out of Florence, and he can hide us for a while.”

 

“Who’s coming?” Abigail asks, her eyes narrowed and her voice concerned. Concerned but not  _ panicked.  _ Annabelle needs Abigail to panic. 

 

“A man named Mason Verger. Jack Crawford. The FBI. Corrupt Italian police,” Annabelle says urgently, grasping onto Abigail’s arm with a tight grip. “They will not be kind to a little girl living under a cannibal’s roof.”

 

“I can’t just leave,” Abigail says, wrenching herself out of Annabelle’s grasp. “Not without my dads. If I tell them what you’ve just told me—”

 

“They’ll kill me in a heartbeat,” Annabelle snaps. “I’m working with Jack Crawford. Or at least, I’m pretending to. I’m trying to protect you but Hannibal will see me as a threat and get rid of me. You  _ cannot  _ tell them what I’ve just told you.”

 

“But they need to know!” 

 

“But I’d like to stay alive for a little while longer,” Annabelle mutters. “Look, your fathers can survive a hell lot of shitstorms. You cannot. You’ve been protected by the monsters, but this time they can’t save you. Please, let me take you away. We’ll come back for your parents but first, we need to leave.”

 

“I can’t,” Abigail says again. “I won’t leave them. I need to stay with my family.” She then turns around and walks away, leaving Annabelle alone on the street. 

 

_ “Dammit!”  _ She shouts, not caring who hears her. 

 

_ Damn it.  _

 

~~~

 

Annabelle nearly dies, about seven hours later. 

 

She’s doing her evening routine when it happens, the glass of her windows shattering. Her knife is within reach and already in her grip, but fear clutches her heart with greedy hands. 

 

_ Blood. Skin tearing. Bones breaking.  _

 

A man of heavy build bursts into her room and she screams, stumbling away, her knife tightly grasped in her hand. 

 

“Get away!” She shouts, and she sees cackling men and hears the sounds of her own screams covering the cracks of her bones.  _ It’s a memory, just a memory,  _ she tells herself.  _ Just my memories. My nightmares. _

 

The man steps forward with heavy steps, and she sees a massive fucking meat cleaver in his hand. 

 

_ Fuck.  _

 

He raises his arm and the weapon, and she manages to dive away quickly enough, the blade colliding with her desk instead. 

 

_ Fuck fuck fuck.  _

 

She rolls away and manages to get behind the man, but before she can retaliate with her own attack, her turns and lunges for her again. The blade scrapes her nose and she feels the sharp sting of skin breaking. 

 

_ Not much meat on her bones, but enough.  _

 

She screams again, hoping someone will hear, and she runs to the kitchen with adrenaline bursting in her blood. She hears the heavy  _ boom boom boom _ of the man behind her, but she manages to outrun him. She slams into her kitchen counter and fumbles with the drawers, searching for the weapon.

 

The man swings again, and she dodges, but not quickly enough. She feels her shoulder’s nerves scream as flesh parts just as her hands close around cold metal. 

 

_ Gotcha.  _

 

She whips around and fires the gun in her hand, ignoring her shoulder’s protests. She fires once, twice, a third time, a fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh time. She fires again and again and again, until her gun clicks uselessly in her hands and the hulk of a man is bleeding to death on her kitchen floor. 

 

She sinks to her knees and wheezes out a soft cry. Then a hiccup. Then a gasp. Then a sob. 

 

_ Dammit.  _

 

She sobs into her palms, the blood from her nose staining her skin. Her shoulder throbs and screams and stings against the open air, but she makes no move to touch it or bandage it or heal it. She just simply sits there, and cries. 

 

_ At some point, Mischa falls into a trance of pain and blood and agony. She doesn’t know how long she stays in this trance. She feels brief touches of warmth against her cheeks and forehead, a soft voice against in her ear. She remembers whispering Hannibal’s name, the word scratching her throat and coaxing blood past her lips. Warmth fills her mouth when she coughs and when she drinks and eats, and after so long, she starts being unable to recognize which is which. Is it blood or is it food? Life or death?  _

 

_ At some point in her trance, the screaming starts.  _

 

_ Voices, horrible voices, reach her ears and suddenly pain fills her. She has been living with pain in her lungs and bones, but this was different. This was the burn of her skin breaking, her muscles breaking, her bones splitting. She probably screamed, forcing sound through her ragged throat and blood flecking the air.  _

 

She doesn’t know how long she’s there on the floor, wailing like a child into her hands. She doesn’t know how long the memories plague her for. She is the sister of a murderer, a follower of death, and yet she is so terrified of the blood. Of the pain. Of the death.

 

Hannibal could only love someone shrouded in death. Someone like Will. Someone like Abigail. Killers. He would never love someone… so weak. So negatively affected by the death. 

 

_ Be strong. Face the blood. Face the death. Revel in it. This is your heritage.  _

 

Minutes or hours later, the door is bursting open, and much lighter footsteps enter the apartment. 

 

“Mischa!”

 

She manages to look up, and suddenly she sees Abigail Hobbs staring at her, worry written all over her face. Abigail kneels in front of Mischa, not touching her, but looking for wounds and blood. Her eyes find Mischa’s bloody shoulder and hands. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” Abigail whispers, covering her mouth to prevent a sob as she kneels in front of Mischa. “I’m so so sorry.”

 

Mischa scrunches her face in confusion. “Why?” she croaks out. Why would Abigail apologize? 

 

“Hannibal, he—” Abigail begins to say. “He sent the man to kill you.”

 

Mischa understands. Hannibal’s hand was forced. “You told him about Jack.”

 

Abigail sobs. “I’m so sorry, I never should have, I should have listened to you, I shouldn’t have ever told them, I’m so sorry.”

 

Mischa shakes her head gently. “It’s okay. You wanted to save them. Like I wanted to save you.”

 

_ You were supposed to leave. _

 

More footsteps, heavier this time. 

 

“Abigail!” 

 

Will and Hannibal come into view, and Mischa suddenly can’t take it anymore. Suddenly, it’s too much. Her name, her family, her death… she can’t keep it inside. She can’t keep carrying around the weight of the Lecter name on her own.

 

 “Hannibal,” she whispers, staggering onto her feet. Abigail moves to help her, but Mischa waves her off. 

 

“Ms DuBois,” Hannibal says. His voice is cold, almost bored. But his eyes find the body and she sees a pleased expression. “You’re alive.”

 

_ You made him proud.  _

 

“Please,” she pleads. “My name is Mischa.”

 

Hannibal looks at her with such rich, dark, alluring eyes. “I know.”

 

“Mischa Lecter,” she whispers, the words so softly spoken but clearly hear through the apartment and its inhabitants. 

 

_ Please. Love me. Embrace me. Say my name and call me beloved.  _

 

Hannibal’s eyes harden, and any warmth or pride in his eyes drowns in the cold. It’s as if he expected her words but prayed that it wasn’t true. “No.”

 

_ Tell me you love me. _

 

“Please,” she whispers. “I’m your sister.” She steps forward, and Hannibal steps back.

 

_ You’re scared of me. Scared of me. Scared of my eyes and the name on my lips.  _

 

Hannibal looks at her, his eyes pained, perhaps once loving, now cold and unforgiving. “You’re not my sister.” 

 

“But I am!” She pleads, stumbling forward and breaching Hannibal’s breathing space. “It’s me, Mischa.”

 

“You’re not her,” Hannibal whispers, the words softly spoken but cutting deep into her. “I would know my own flesh and blood, and you are not that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LEAVE A COMMENT AND TELL ME WHAT YA THINK!
> 
> IS MISCHA REALLY MISCHA? IS HANNIBAL IN DENIAL? IS SOMEONE GONNA DIE???
> 
> Mwuhahahaha I love all of you guys thank you so much for sticking with this fic.


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